


Oubliette

by dracoqueen22



Series: Crown the Empire [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Multi, Read at Your Own Risk, See Each Chapter for Relevant Warnings, Slavery, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Triggery Content, bad things happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 121,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Optimus, the war has never been personal. Hate has never been part of the equation, not even for Megatron. Pity perhaps, but never hate. Now, with the weight of shame on his shoulders, he begins to understand where loathing might have its roots, and how it can so easily slide into hate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NK (NKfloofiepoof)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKfloofiepoof/gifts).



> This is a bribe-fic for NK, one I was thrilled to take as it gave me an opportunity to tackle a trope that's been sitting in my periphery for a long, long time. Oubliette is part one of a three part series and it is brutal. It is based in the G1 universe, but I borrow a LOT of characters from IDW to fill up my cast. (What I mean by this, is while some of these characters have G1 equivalents, I'm using their IDW characterization because I'm not familiar with G1 S3)
> 
> I have edited this several times to the best of my ability, but I am only human. Please feel free to point out any mistakes I might have made. 
> 
> For warnings: oh so many, too many to list, but NonCon/Rape being of most importance. Read at your own risk. If there's something that triggers you, it's probably in here. Torture, Humiliation, Character Death (on and off screen), Abuse... it's all here. 
> 
> Mood Music: "Hunted," Steve Jablonsky

Cyberton was a large planet. Even so, Optimus Prime was running out of places to hide.  
  
Their war had left it a ruin. Shattered buildings. A burnt husk of a landscape. Roads that were impassable. The lack of a sun made illumination intermittent. The atmosphere alternated between being far too cold and far too hot. He had lost count of the number of times he'd woken to find frost on his armor.  
  
Right now, he was tucked in the remnants of a general goods store, with the debris of a collapsed roof and several walls to serve as dubious shelter. Scavengers had picked the store free of anything of use over the centuries, but one wall was better than none. With the dirt on his frame, he blended in with the dust and destruction.  
  
He couldn't stay here long, but hopefully, long enough to steal a few hours of recharge. He'd almost crashed twice, black outs caused by lack of defragging and suitable energon intake.  
  
Twenty-three percent.  
  
The numbers stared dolefully back at him, bright red and blinking in the corner of his HUD. He couldn't remember ever being so low. Pits, he couldn't remember a day he dipped below eighty-five percent. Ratchet would have had his fanbelts for garters if he didn't keep himself at full capacity.  
  
He worried for Trailbreaker. His systems were dreadfully inefficient and his best defense would drain him far faster than any other action. He might doom himself in the process of protecting himself. If he hadn't been found already.  
  
Optimus popped the panel on his forearm and activated the tiny communications console. It was encrypted, but not enough that he dared risk being found by Soundwave. He only intended to link with the public newscasts.  
  
The shows were meant for him after all.  
  
He skimmed the recent events and announcements, but there was no word of another Autobot capture, not since the Stunticons had sussed out Inferno, south of what remained of Protihex. Optimus' only consolation was that Inferno had not lived long enough to suffer what the other surviving Autobots currently endured.  
  
Optimus closed the panel and bowed his helm.  
  
He did not know how many were left. He could form a fair guess, but without the ability to contact any of them for fear of Soundwave, it would only be that. A guess. There were distant hopes of reuniting with his scattered forces, of forming a stand against Megatron and rescuing their friends. But they seemed as unobtainable to him as a cube of fresh energon.  
  
Optimus sighed a soft ventilation and rummaged about in his subspace. He knew already what he would find, but there was a part of him that thought if he looked hard enough, perhaps something new would appear. But no, nothing but the same cube of recycled energon, a grade so low it was better used in machinery.  
  
Optimus would know. He'd drained it from an old assembler he'd found in a ruined fabrication plant yesterday.  
  
He opened his battlemask and sipped at the cube, but not before he turned off his olfactory sensors. The energon was foul, both to taste and smell, and he had to remind himself that it was necessary. His energy levels crawled up to a measly thirty percent, but it would keep him going for another decaorn if he was cautious.  
  
He choked down the rest of it and stowed the empty cube back in his subspace. If he was lucky, he might find another abandoned machine or – Primus help him – a recently deceased frame. It was the only worse energon to consume, but it was better than nothing.  
  
His tank churned at the mere thought and Optimus offlined his optics. He closed his battlemask as well, forcefully turning his thoughts away. He couldn't afford to lose what he'd consumed.  
  
He hoped the others were faring better. Jazz, he was sure, was probably doing the best out of all of them. No doubt he'd already raided the Decepticons and had a stash of high grade. He'd probably already concocted some wild and crazy plan for causing Megatron grief and rescuing their fellow Autobots.  
  
If only Prowl were here...  
  
He heard a rustle. Optimus froze, his optics snapping back online. He stalled his ventilations. He peered through a gap in the debris but couldn't see anything moving out there. He carefully shifted and peered out the other side. Nothing. He didn't dare risk a scan.  
  
His spark fluttered.  
  
Optimus dimmed his optics and stared into the gloom. The shapes of buildings, most of them bombed to their foundations, loomed like eerie sentinels against the backdrop of a starry night.  
  
Something shifted. A darker black. There was a flash of crimson.  
  
Time to go.  
  
Optimus eased out of his shelter, crawling out of the ingress he'd made for himself. He scanned the dark street in front of him, but lacking the ability to see anything, feared he would have to take the risk.  
  
He bolted from his tentative cover and no sooner had he emerged from the building did laser fire light up the night. Optimus ducked, biting back a cry of pain as a glancing shot seared across his side. It seared his plating, minor damage.  
  
He whirled, blaster leaping into his hands, and fired blindly in the direction of the shots. He heard a shout, a scrabble of pedes in debris, and his systems reported a doleful lack of charge for his weaponry.  
  
Frag it all.  
  
He sent out a ping, the landscape reading back to him. There was a road, rough and pitted and scattered with debris, but drive-able. It would do.  
  
Transforming was agony, the rust and grit of poor Cybertron trapped against every gear and cog. He could feel it grinding. Ratchet would have a fit if he knew. Optimus even had to force a bent strut into place, and his engine had a worrisome knock to it.  
  
He couldn't think about any of that. The moment his tires hit the streets, Optimus slammed on the pedal and shot across the road. Debris kicked up against his undercarriage with audible scrapes. He winced. But far worse were the Decepticons on his tail, one taking potshots at his aft.  
  
Thank Primus he didn't have his trailer to slow him down.  
  
Optimus checked his rearview and sideview mirrors. He could hear the roar of the chasing Decepticons, though he couldn't see enough of them for identification. But they were flight mechs. He knew this much.  
  
His headlights picked up what looked like a hole in the street. Cybertron was honeycombed with many, many underground levels. Most had collapsed during the war. Others were still passable. But they were narrow, suffocating, and uncomfortable for flight mechs to navigate.  
  
Optimus did not know them very well, but Jazz had. And Jazz, for whatever reason, had given Optimus the specs long ago. Maybe because they would sit and reminisce about the planet they could no longer call home. Maybe because they both longed to return and fervently believed it might happen.  
  
Optimus didn't know what was below him. He didn't know the condition of the lower levels or what Empties might lurk in the dark. But he did know that given his current state, the Decepticons chasing him would catch up sooner rather than later.  
  
It was worth the risk.  
  
He jerked to the left, aiming for the collapsed section of roadway. A flyer screamed overhead and bullets peppered the streets around him. Optimus swerved to avoid them as shrapnel pinged his sides. His engine screamed at him, kicking back, his entire frame shuddering.  
  
This was going to hurt.  
  
Optimus hurtled toward the hole and fell into darkness, forcing himself to transform the moment his tires left the roadway. Thank Primus for his sensors because he couldn't see anything, and Optimus hit the ground hard, tucking his momentum into a roll. Pain ran like lightning up his right leg.  
  
He cut off his vocalizer to hide his groan and dragged himself to his pedes, limping into the dim. This was a transport tunnel, he gathered, the remnants of rail lines evident beneath his pedes. They would take him all over the city, provided they were unblocked. He could still hear the Decepticons above him, though more distant. He had no doubt they were still hot on his trail.  
  
Returning to alt-mode was a special kind of fresh agony, but it would be faster. His knee ached, making anything faster than a limp impossible.  
  
Optimus kept his headlights off, relying on his sensors to navigate. He hoped that the hole was too small for his pursuers. His engine echoed eerily in the tunnel. He heard a steady drip-drip-drip, and knew it came from his undercarriage.  
  
His energy levels dipped back down to twenty-three percent, wasting the cube he'd forced himself to consume.  
  
Above him, he heard a heavy thump. Dust rained down. He felt the heavy swamp of a questing field, and pulled his own toward nil. Another handy trick Jazz had taught him. He held his ventilations, his sensors, his frame running silent.  
  
He waited, tires inching across the ground. Breath caught in his throat, as Sparkplug might have said.  
  
The sound of voices was muffled. Either the ground had been truly thin, or sound traveled far too easily. Optimus waited, creeping forward, aiming himself toward relative safety. The tunnel sloped downward, taking him deeper as it grew narrower.  
  
Optimus did not relax for a great distance. He listened intently, jumped at every noise, and continued on, watching his energy levels slowly tick down. He wanted to put as many miles between himself and the Decepticons as possible. He didn't know if they could track him underground, but he didn't want to take the risk.  
  
At least it wasn't Soundwave and his minions. Optimus would have been doomed otherwise.  
  
The ache in his frame worsened. His altmode compressed his shoulder joint and something was grating against the blaster wound. He would have to take a look at it. If he could. Ratchet was going to be furious.  
  
The minutes bled by until they became an hour. His engine rattled. His gears ground a disturbing rale that was probably painful, but lost to the other agonies. A branch loomed ahead with an access ladder nearby. Only then did Optimus allow himself to slow. He returned to root mode and staggered against the wall of the tunnel as compressed relays shouted their irritation.  
  
His processor swam. His tank gurgled. He was down to twenty percent. Energon slicked his side and when Optimus pressed a hand to it, he felt the buckled plating. His armor had caved inward and punctured an energon line. It was a minor injury, but his self-repair couldn't get to it.  
  
He offlined his optics, gritted his denta, and grabbed the dented plating. He pulled, forcefully bending it away from the puncture. It was by no means a delicate fix, but it would do for now. Ratchet would be appalled.  
  
Optimus pulled a few strips of static bandage from his subspace. He had only a few left, but this tear would worsen if he didn't cover it. Particularly if he had to transform again.  
  
Leak handled, Optimus sagged against the wall, cycling his ventilations. He ached everywhere. There wasn't a part or gear or strut on him that didn't cry out for mercy. He onlined his optics, their dim glow illuminating the ruin around him. This section of tunnel was fairly intact. Far ahead, it branched off, one curving deeper, the other climbing upward.  
  
He needed energon. He would have to risk it.  
  
Optimus allowed himself a minute more of rest before he headed for the access ladder. He looked up into the darkness where it vanished into the ceiling. This had probably once been a service access ramp, meant for the maintenance bots. It was going to be a tight fit, but Optimus had lost much of the bulk of his battle armor. He could make it.  
  
He cycled a ventilation, dragged a hand down his face, and then began to climb. He hoped his temporary patch held.  
  
His shoulders scraped on the walls of the access. Dust trickled down on top of him, into the gaps of his plating, joining the other dirt and grime he'd accumulated. He didn't think he'd ever get clean.  
  
His ventilations echoed around him, no matter how much he tried to keep them quiet.  
  
Cybertron was a dead planet and it showed. Never, in all his memory, could Optimus recall a time of silence. There had always been a sense of life, a subtle hum to the very structures of Cyberton that kept it from being silent.  
  
Now there was nothing. His spark ached to think of it.  
  
Optimus reached the top and cautiously peeked out of the access hatch. It was a maintenance room, the building itself still intact. This room had probably once been used for rest periods. There were a couple of average-sized berths, a table and chairs, and a row of lockers. All were sized for mechs close to Jazz or Smokescreen in size, the typical mass of a maintenance worker.  
  
Optimus hauled himself out of the hatch and approached the dirty window. He couldn't see anything in the streets beyond it. No movement. Nothing. Hopefully, he remained in the clear.  
  
He rummaged about the room, opening the lockers and peering under the berths, but there was no energon to be found. He did, however, come across a small medkit that he tucked into his subspace. More static bandages could always come to use. He lowered himself to the berth and tucked into the corner. It was far from comfortable, but it gave him a good view of the windows.  
  
The tiny subroutine he had monitoring the newscasts chirped at him. Optimus popped open the panel and activated the network. Dread curled within him.  
  
The dim glow of the holographic screen reflected across his face and he angled his frame to keep it from being visible beyond his makeshift shelter. The audio, however, came in loud and clear through his comm systems, beyond the hearing range of his trackers.  
  
Megatron had brought his newest acquisition on stage, surrounded by the victorious trackers. A crowd of Decepticons laughed and cheered below. His forces had grown in the past several decaorns, responding to Megatron's summons, his gleeful announcement of victory.  
  
Come back to Cybertron, he'd told them, victory is ours!  
  
Optimus didn't know if there were any more Autobots out there to form a resistance. He didn't know if they'd heard Megatron's announcement and decided to stay away for their own safety. He couldn't fault them for it if they had. Not knowing what fate had befallen his forces already present.  
  
Stay away, Optimus hoped. Stay far, far away.  
  
The crowd grew louder. This was a show, produced not only for their benefit, but for Optimus'. Otherwise Megatron would not have bothered.  
  
_Ratchet_.  
  
His spark sank.  
  
More valuable alive than offline, Optimus gathered, though clearly his captors had taken the opportunity to enjoy their prey. Ratchet could not have put up enough of a fight to warrant such damage.  
  
He was as scraped and dirty as Optimus himself. The bright whites and reds of his paint were dull due to lack of energon and hiding himself in the gutters. His windshield was splintered, most of the glass missing. His hands were bound in front of him, and the cameraman – Reflector – made certain to zoom in on their twisted nature.  
  
So cruel, to damage a medic's hands. Hook could fix them, no doubt, but Optimus knew that wasn't the point. Ratchet suffered for the crime of being an Autobot. For daring to stand against Megatron and serve alongside Optimus. Ratchet had also been a member of the elite, a class Megatron loathed.  
  
Despite his condition, Ratchet stood on the stage, his helm lifted with pride. He flinched, however, when Megatron moved beside him, clapping one hand down on Ratchet's shoulder.  
  
“The Autobot chief medical officer,” Megatron declared, his smug tone coming through loud and clear. Optimus' internals rippled with fury. “Ours at last.”  
  
Ratchet's face contorted with disgust, but he said nothing. Whether because he couldn't – judging by the dent around his intake – or he didn't dare, Optimus didn't know.  
  
“I am almost impressed,” Megatron continued as he stepped around to Ratchet's other side. His hand dragged along the top of Ratchet's frame, skirting the fractured windshield. “It's rare that a medic outpaces my Decepticons. After all, the others did not. Did they?”  
  
He looked back toward the camera with a smirk.  
  
Optimus' engine growled. Hoist, too, was dead, though not due to execution. He hadn't survived Omega's crashlanding. Grapple had been distraught, not that he'd lived long enough to suffer his grief.  
  
First Aid had been left behind on Earth, with the rest of the Protectobots. Optimus did not know their fate. He feared the worst.  
  
Ratchet bared his denta, and now, Optimus believed he couldn't speak. Otherwise he had no doubt the stream of vitriol to leave his officer's mouth would have been vile.  
  
Megatron laughed and his hand slid to Ratchet's throat, fingers flirting over the impressions already present. Ratchet went still though his broken fingers twitched.  
  
“Are you watching, Prime?” Megatron purred, circling Ratchet until he stood behind him, fingers wrapped ever so carefully around Ratchet's intake.  
  
Reflector zoomed in and Optimus could see that Ratchet was shaking beneath the bravado. It could have been fear or exhaustion, either way, it pained Optimus to see it.  
  
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Megatron taunted and his fingers flexed. “This one's already mine. How many more until you give yourself up?”  
  
The crowd roared. Ratchet shuttered his optics.  
  
Optimus' energon levels dipped to nineteen percent. He didn't have enough energy to power his blaster or his blade, even if he rerouted what he had left to the bare minimum.  
  
“You see?” Megatron said, less taunt and more challenge as he dropped his hand from Ratchet's intake and addressed his loyal audience. “He would rather hide than rescue his soldiers. He cowers in the ruins of the war he lost.” His arms made grand gestures; he'd certainly learned how to put on a show.  
  
Megatron looked straight into the camera, lips curled with a smirk, his optics glowing a baleful red. “Your Autobots are suffering, Prime,” he purred. “But don't worry, I'll take very good care of them.”  
  
Optimus' helm snapped up, his attention dragged from the holographic screen. He snapped it shut, turning up the gain on his audials.  
  
He swore he'd heard something. A shuffle. A ventilation. A whisper of footsteps in the ash and rust. He dimmed his optics until they barely glowed. He held his ventilations. His hand crept toward his blaster, though it held no charge. His opponents didn't know that however.  
  
He peered through the broken glass of the window. The streets were empty. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. He didn't dare send out a curious ping. His instincts screamed at him to move, but without knowing where his pursuers were, he didn't know which way to bolt. He scanned the streets again.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Something above him creaked. Optimus tensed.  
  
The roof came crashing down on top of him. He ducked, arms covering his helm as he was pelted with heavy sheets of metal and debris. Pain lanced through his right leg as a thin pole pierced his upper thigh, pinning him to the floor.  
  
Above the noise, he swore he heard laughter. He felt it the heavy, swamping field of a massive mech, one who had the energy to spare for his field. Something hit his helm, knocking his processor fuzzy. He smelled ash and energon.  
  
Optimus threw himself to the side, the rod tearing through his plating to the tune of ripped cables and lines. He stifled a sound of pain, pulling himself forward on his elbows. A heavy weight landed on top of him, one equal in size to him if not larger. There weren't many Decepticons who could match him in mass.  
  
Optimus threw himself to the side, out from beneath his assailant. He cringed as blasterfire lit up the dark around him, a lucky shot searing through his left shoulder. He scrambled to his pedes, the stench of scorched plating thick on his sensors.  
  
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Optimus turned his helm but not in enough time to avoid someone much larger barreling into him from the side. Optimus went flying into a piece of furniture, crashing through the table as though it were made of paper and not solid steel. He groaned and tried to push himself back upright, his gyros reeling.  
  
He never saw the blow coming, only felt the impact as it sent him crashing into the floor, rolling across it like so much scrap. He couldn't ventilate, couldn't see anything in the dark, but blurs of movement. His vision splintered, as though he'd cracked an optic, and he tried to push himself upright, managing to get to hands and knees, his left arm a blaze of pain.  
  
A pede landed in the middle of his back, flattening him to the floor, his battlemask scraping across shattered transsteel. Optimus heard his plating buckle and warnings flashed across his HUD. Something snapped and he felt a trickle of energon worm its way through his substructure.  
  
Someone laughed. “The great Optimus Prime,” a mech said, his voice unfamiliar, but then, there were few Decepticons Optimus could recognize by voice alone. “Well, aren't we lucky, Astro?”  
  
Astro.... Astrotrain? Which meant it was Blitzwing above him, as one was never found without the other. No wonder it felt like a railcar was standing on top of him.  
  
Optimus' vision went hazy. His energy levels ticked down another two percent.  
  
Debris in front of him was lifted and tossed. Smaller pieces were kicked away by a pale gray leg. And then Astrotrain crouched in front of him, arms braced on his knees as he looked down at Optimus.  
  
“Luck don't have anything to do with it, Blitz.” He smirked, his optical band brightening. “He's about as meek as a sparkling right now. Poor little Autobot.”  
  
They laughed in unison.  
  
Optimus' blaster was buried in the rubble. Not that it mattered since he couldn't use it.  
  
Blitzwing pressed down harder. A groan escaped Optimus as gears ground together with a screech. Something else cracked. His vents struggled to pull in air and found nothing but dust.  
  
There would be no begging with these two. They served either themselves or the Decepticon cause. He could not appeal to their mercy. They had none. But perhaps they were just dumb enough to trick.  
  
“You cannot kill me,” Optimus said. “Megatron would--”  
  
“Aww, we already know that,” Astrotrain said and his hand settled on Optimus' helm, giving him a condescending pat. “He'd have our sparks if we took that away from him. But that doesn't mean we have to bring you back in one piece.”  
  
Blitzwing chuckled. “No, it doesn't mean that at all.”  
  
Dread coiled low and heavy in Optimus' tanks.  
  
The hand on Optimus' helm was hot and heavy, and as it dragged down the side of his face, a thumb pressed on the seam of his battlemask. “We can have some fun first. Since we don't have an Autobot to play with yet.”  
  
Optimus' engine growled, his hands curling into fists. What Megatron had done to his soldiers was unforgivable!  
  
Blitzwing snickered. “I don't think he likes the sound of that.”  
  
His pede disappeared from Optimus' back but before Optimus could summon the wherewithal to roll over, to try and launch himself away from them both, Blitzwing plopped himself down on Optimus' upper thighs, the edge of one armor plate digging into the wound caused by the rod. His hands settled on Optimus' aft, fingers pushing into the gaps at his hips.  
  
“It's not about what he likes,” Astrotrain said, and he looked straight into Optimus' optics. “Not anymore. You lost, Prime. To the victor go the spoils. Isn't that what your precious squishies always say?”  
  
He opted for silence. It was the only defense he had left.  
  
“Looks like he doesn't want to talk either.” Blitzwing's engine rumbled, rattling Optimus' frame, and his hands pushed harder, to the point of pain.  
  
“That's all right. I'm not interested in him talking.” Astrotrain's thumb pressed harder against Optimus' mask, the plate bowing inward. “Open.”  
  
Blitzwing laughed. “You think asking nicely will work?”  
  
“Doesn't have to. It's just a warning.” Astrotrain leaned closer, close enough to touch, until his ex-vents blasted heat against Optimus' face. “Open or you lose it.”  
  
Optimus' optics narrowed and he abruptly shifted his weight. He swung a fist at the triple-changer, landing a solid hit against Astrotrain's jaw, and as Astrotrain reeled backward, Optimus lunged for the blaster on his left hip.  
  
Slam!  
  
Astrotrain cursed. Optimus' optical feed fritzed as his helm hit the floor, what had to be Blitzwing's hand slamming him face first into the debris-strewn metal. He flailed, lashing backward with an elbow, but large fingers wrapped around his wrist and jerked his arm back, causing the shoulder joint to crack and the blaster wound to ache. He howled, hearing the snap of his joint as Blitzwing pinned his arm to his back, pressing it down against his spinal strut.  
  
Optimus gritted his denta. He rebooted his optics to restore his visual feed in time to see a pede smash down onto his hand, grinding it against the floor. He felt and heard the joints buckle, the splatter of energon, the crunch of his plating. Two fingers went numb; his HUD screamed warnings at him.  
  
“That was pointless,” Astrotrain huffed, all trace of amusement gone from his vocals.  
  
Blitzwing, however, laughed. “Should've seen it coming.”  
  
More pain raked through Optimus' hand as Astrotrain bore down, grinding Optimus' hand beneath his pede. The weight on his helm grew heavier, fingers clamping tightly around it.  
  
“Whatever. Gimme those cuffs.”  
  
Optimus struggled to draw in a ventilation. Blitzwing's legs blocked one of his lateral vents and the other churned along with a rickety creak that spoke of his ill health.  
  
Optimus heard a rattle before the weight across his back shifted. Astrotrain lifted his pede in the same moment that Blitzwing released Optimus' helm, but there was no time to form a defense. Blitzwing grabbed his other wrist and cuffed both behind Optimus' back, the hum of the stasis cuffs immediately making both arms go numb.  
  
Optimus could not ventilate a sigh of relief. Not when Blitzwing's weight vanished from his thighs, but only because the triple-changer had a grip on Optimus' bound wrists and hauled him backward, up onto his knees. His world swayed, a smear of gray and purple and red. Optimus' visual feed sharpened into the sight of Astrotrain standing above him, his pelvic plating in discomfiting proximity.  
  
Blitzwing kept his grip on the stasis cuffs, but his other hand planted on Optimus' helm, tilting it back. Astrotrain stared down at him, his hands fisted at his sides.  
  
Optimus opted for silence. Words would not convince them to stop and he would not give them the pleasure of begging.  
  
“Now that's a nice view,” Astrotrain growled. “Optimus Prime on his knees. Looking up at me like some two-bit buymech.”  
  
“Bet he sucks spike like one.”  
  
“Me, too.” Astrotrain's mouth twisted into a sneer. “But first....” He reared back and Optimus read his intentions in a split-second.  
  
He twisted his frame, tried to avoid, but Blitzwing's hand might as well have been welded to his helm. Astrotrain's punch hit him square in the jaw, whipping his helm to the right. Pain exploded in his face; his battle mask denting with an audible pop. He never saw the second punch coming, or the third as they struck his abdomen, buckling his ventral armor.  
  
Optimus doubled over, his tanks churning and his face aching. His battle mask was more than dented, it was cracked and he wondered if he could even trigger it open now. His ventilations rattled, and then seized when Blitzwing hauled him backward, his hand gripping one of Optimus' antennae this time. He was forced, once again, to look up at Astrotrain.  
  
“That was for punching me.” Astrotrain flexed his fingers.  
  
“I'm getting bored,” Blitzwing said.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your thrusters on.” Astrotrain crouched in front of Optimus again, their helms even now. He tapped Optimus' mask. “So. Easy way or hard way? Your choice, Prime.”  
  
His optics narrowed. “It is no choice.”  
  
Astrotrain grinned. “Sure it is. The more you cooperate, the less it hurts. But since you insist--” He grabbed Optimus' face, fingers curled on the edges of his mask. “We'll do it the hard way.”  
  
Before Optimus could jerk his helm away or form a protest, Astrotrain dug his fingers in and pulled. Optimus shouted as fire erupted across his face. Empty connectors spat static into the air. Astrotrain tossed the mask over his shoulder where it clattered away, lost to the darkness.  
  
Damage reports streamed across his HUD. Optimus shunted them aside to join the dozens waiting for acknowledgment and permission to begin repairs. He would need to conserve his resources.  
  
Blitzwing grabbed his hips and jerked him back. Optimus' legs spread wide, thighs straddling Blitzwing's, his hip joints creaking under the stretch. His aft collided with Blitzwing's burning interface panel. Blitzwing held him in place as he ground against Optimus' aft, the harsh whuff of his ventilations blasting heat down on Optimus.  
  
“Impatient much?” Astrotrain snickered.  
  
“Megatron'll be wanting a report soon and you know once he finds out we got Optimus Prime, he'll want us back.” Blitzwing's fingers tightened, digging into the narrow gaps in Optimus' plating and forcing them wider.  
  
“True, true.”  
  
Optimus groaned. His helm drooped forward as he pressed his lipplates shut. Errors and warnings and more red letters screamed at him. His processor spun. His energy levels sank.  
  
He heard a pop as a wet, heavy shaft nudged against his aft, applying pressure to his valve cover.  
  
“Move it or lose it, Prime,” Blitzwing said. He ground hard against Optimus' aft and interface cover and the thinner metal bowed inward.  
  
Because what Decepticon soldier wouldn't leap at the chance to have their enemy's commander at their heels? Optimus was under no illusions. This wasn't about pleasure.  
  
It was and always would be about power.  
  
_Make it easy_ , Jazz had once said.  
  
A necessary course, Ratchet insisted. Lessons on how to survive Decepticon captivity. All command level members of the Autobots were ordered to take them. Even Optimus.  
  
Especially Optimus, Jazz had said.  
  
_Make it easy, but not too easy. Decide what you'll endure, and what you'd rather offline than suffer.  
  
Lose what you won't miss. Watch and wait. Take a chance only when there's no other option. Sometimes, cooperation is better. It's not the same thing as consent. _  
  
Optimus ground his denta and sent the command for his panel to slide open. He kept his spike shielded. He doubted they wanted to make use of it and he didn't want to invite their attention to it.  
  
“Much obliged,” Blitzwing drawled.  
  
The head of his spike – larger than anything Optimus had taken before – nudged at the rim of Optimus' valve. He was not lubricated near enough to take the spike, though he felt the moisture of Blitzwing's seeping pre-transfluid tease his sensitive rim.  
  
Large hands grabbed Optimus' helm, tilting it upward. He smelled hot metal and transfluid before he saw the bio-lit spike aimed toward his mouth. It, too, was larger than Optimus had taken before. The sheer girth of it would stretch him open, would strain his jaw. Astrotrain's thumbs pressed at the corners of his mouth.  
  
“If you bite me,” he growled, “there will be consequences. We have to keep you alive, but that doesn't mean you need your optics. Or your audials.”  
  
“Or both legs,” Blitzwing said.  
  
He continued to still rut against Optimus' valve but not pressing into him just yet. The scrape-scrape of the head of his spike on Optimus' rim was maddening. Disgust couldn't chase away the light tendrils of pleasure that dared flicker through his array. It was just painless enough that his systems wanted to register it as pleasure.  
  
Automatic responses didn't much care for emotional input, no matter how negative.  
  
“Or arms,” Astrotrain chimed in and he looked down at Optimus. His visor burned and the tip of his spike nudged Optimus' lips. “Open.”  
  
_Cooperation can keep you alive._  
  
His Autobots were suffering worse. Surely Optimus could endure the same, be with them in spirit if not frame.  
  
Optimus offlined his optics and parted his lips. The rounded head of Astrotrain's spike moved closer and a drip of pre-transfluid landed thick and heavy on Optimus' glossa. His tank lurched.  
  
Blitzwing chose that moment to jerk Optimus' hips back, impaling Optimus on his spike.  
  
Optimus spasmed. He cried out in and Astrotrain took advantage of it by shoving into Optimus' mouth and stretching his jaw wide. Optimus' valve calipers spasmed as they were forced open, more than a few straining around Blitzwing's girth. Blitzwing bottomed out and held Optimus there, filled to the rim of Optimus valve. His spike throbbed within Optimus' valve.  
  
Astrotrain made a pleased noise. The first third of his spike stirred around Optimus' mouth, forming a heavy weight on his glossa. Optimus' intake worked, oral solvents filling his mouth and trickling down his intake. His fingers drew into fists as his thighs trembled.  
  
“Any smaller and I wouldn't have fit,” Blitzwing said.  
  
He circled his hips, his spike moving mere inches within Optimus' valve. It did not qualify as a true thrust, but a slow and steady scrape of discomfort over Optimus' sensors.  
  
He was barely lubricated, if at all, and the rasp of Blitzwing's spike caused a flush of fire through his nodes. His calipers kept trying to cycle shut to ease the ache, but all it did was cause them to tighten around Blitzwing's spike.  
  
“We'd have made you fit,” Astrotrain said and he rocked his hips. His spike pushed deeper into Optimus' mouth, until the head of it brushed Optimus' spasming intake.  
  
“Frag right I would have,” Blitzwing said.  
  
They laughed. Their vents blasted down on Optimus, heating up the atmosphere around him, until his cooling fans could pull in nothing but their ex-vents.  
  
Dear Primus let it be over soon.  
  
Blitzwing moved. He withdrew from Optimus' valve by half, only to plunge back in again, a harder, sharper thrust. It rocked Optimus' forward, further onto Astrotrain's spike. One hand kept a grip on his jaw, the other moved to his helm, keeping it angled better for Astrotrain's use.  
  
“Nice,” Astrotrain hissed.  
  
“Gonna be better,” Blitzwing huffed and his fingers tightened on Optimus' hips, audibly denting the metal.  
  
There was a scrape of metal on the floor as Blitzwing shifted his weight. He snapped his hips and thrust into Optimus again and this time, there was no delay. There was only the plunge-retreat, plunge-retreat of Blitzwing slamming into Optimus. His array slapped against Optimus' aft. His spike forced Optimus' calipers open until at last, they ceased trying to squeeze him out.  
  
Astrotrain moaned. His fingers flexed their grip on Optimus' helm. His spike trickled pre-fluid down Optimus' throat, more than the average mech.  
  
“Please tell me you're recording,” Astrotrain said, his vocals thick with arousal.  
  
“Frag, yeah.”  
  
Of course they would.  
  
Blitzwing's grip tightened. Warnings flooded Optimus' HUD anew. His hips ached, the relays crushed. Would he walk after this? He didn't know. Astrotrain's spike swelled in his mouth and forced his jaw wider. It pushed deeper, bumping the back of his intake to the rhythm of Blitzwing pounding against his ceiling node.  
  
“Frag!” Astrotrain cursed and though his grip didn't loosen, he eased off Optimus' intake, allowing him a moment of relief.  
  
Blitzwing paused, spike half-filling Optimus' valve. “What is it?”  
  
Astrotrain didn't answer. One hand lifted away from Optimus' helm. “Astrotrain here,” he said.  
  
Blitzwing rumbled. “Lord Megatron?”  
  
“We've found and captured Optimus Prime. I don't care if you don't fragging believe me. You'll see when we get back! Astrotrain, out.”  
  
“Out of time,” Blitzwing said.  
  
“Better make it quick,” Astrotrain agreed.  
  
Optimus braced himself. Not that it mattered. There was little he could do but endure as their thrusts increased in earnest. No more savoring. No more enjoyment. Just the sheer, mindless pursuit of an overload.  
  
Astrotrain no longer left Blitzwing to dictate the pace. He thrust into Optimus' mouth with abandon, off rhythm to Blitzwing. Optimus writhed between them, barely able to catch a ventilation.  
  
The room was filled with the sound of metal on metal. With the whining buzz of two triplechanmbers' cooling fans and rapid ventilations. With Astrotrain's moans and Blitzwing's gasps and Optimus' embarrassing, unpreventable whines. He hurt, he ached, though a part of him had grown numb to it.  
  
Blitzwing was the first to go, his grip tightening to the tune of crumpled armor as he yanked Optimus back onto his spike and jetted transfluid into Optimus' valve. It was hot, burning as it seared over his damaged nodes and scraped lining. On and on, spurt after spurt, as though determined to coat Optimus' valve in his transfluid.  
  
His moan of pleasure echoed in Optimus' audials. His field was ripe with no satisfaction.  
  
“My turn.” Astrotrain gripped Optimus' helm in both hands and rutted into Optimus' mouth.  
  
His spike swelled again, until there was barely any room to move. He thrust hard against Optimus' intake and lingered, his hips performing tiny circles that rubbed the head of his spike over and over against the delicate lining. Little grunts of pleasure spilled from Astrotrain's vocalizer before he stiffened and curved over Optimus' helm, spike pulsing down Optimus' intake.  
  
He had no choice but to swallow. There was nowhere else for the transfluid to go, and it slid down his throat in sticky globs. His tank rebelled and only great force of will kept him from purging. Astrotrain's hands kept him from pulling away and Optimus knelt there, impaled on both ends, waiting for it to stop.  
  
His energy levels crawled back up to a measly twenty percent. There wasn't much energon in transfluid, but just enough that more than a few mechs on their way to Empty had turned themselves into buymechs to try and stay alive. Optimus knew the stories. It had been part of what he'd wanted to change before the war began. No mech should force himself to his knees to survive. No mech.  
  
Astrotrain's spike deflated at the same rate as the transfluid spilling down Optimus' intake. Clearly, he'd been modded at some point. It was several long, revolting minutes before Astrotrain pulled free of his mouth, though not without a final spurt of transfluid that landed on Optimus' windshield.  
  
Optimus onlined his optics, getting a view of Astrotrain massaging the base of his spike before he retracted it. Blitzwing was still half-pressurized within Optimus, and would likely have gone for another round if not for the comm.  
  
Astrotrain patted Optimus on the helm. “Much obliged, Prime. Too bad we can't keep you.”  
  
Blitzwing barked a laugh. “Yeah. No way Megatron's gonna share.”  
  
He pushed Optimus off his spike and his lap, and Optimus tumbled forward. He threw himself to the right, landing on his shoulder instead of his faceplate, and cringed at the trickle of transfluid leaking from his valve. If he closed his panel, it would only trap Blitzwing's spill inside. If he left it open, he would leak all down his thighs and it might be seen as an invitation.  
  
“You must be proud,” he said as the two mechs rose to their full height, jostling each other like a couple of high school age humans. The satisfaction in their fields was hard to miss.  
  
Astrotrain kicked him, a solid blow to the midsection that made Optimus curl inward. Something crumpled in his chassis and the sound of grinding mechanisms echoed in his audials.  
  
“Megatron's pinging me,” Blitzwing said, tapping his audial. Otherwise, they made no acknowledgment that Optimus had spoken.  
  
“Me, too.” Astrotrain sighed and shook his helm. “Playtime's over.”  
  
No, Optimus realized as Blitzwing reached down and dragged him to his pedes.  
  
It was only just beginning.  
  


****


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no warnings masterlist. I'm working on it. Feel free to ask me directly if there is a specific warning you wish to know about. :) 
> 
> Mood Music: "My Demons," Starset

Lying on the floor of Astrotrain's cargo hold was arguably the most comfortable Optimus had been in months. Though he was surrounded by Astrotrain's energy field and the steady thrum of the mech's engines, Optimus was not being molested at the moment. Optimus considered that a mercy.   
  
He was certain there wasn't a part of him that didn't ache. He was covered in grime and transfluid. He felt it sticky down his intake and within his valve. He opted to close the panel, even if it meant trapping the spill inside. It was better than advertising. He missed his battlemask. Neither mech had bothered to retrieve it.   
  
They were heading, without further delay, to Iacon, where Megatron had chosen to station his headquarters, in the ruins of the Prime's Estate. Megatron could have gone back to his own stomping ground, back to the Decepticon capital, but no. To further prove he had won, he had chosen Iacon instead.   
  
Astrotrain and Blitzwing had not been kind captors. Optimus was under no illusions that Megatron would be any better. He'd seen the broadcasts.   
  
Astrotrain landed and Optimus braced himself. As the shuttle settled around him, the floor vibrated to the tune of Astrotrain's engine cycling down. Optimus heard the cargo door hiss open. He didn't know who to expect but wasn't surprised to see Thundercracker and Skywarp ascending the ramp.   
  
Optimus was escorted from Astrotrain's hold between the two of them. The triple-changer shifted to root mode the moment Optimus was clear. He and Blitzwing stood together, triumphant and gleeful.   
  
Megatron waited in a courtyard, flanked by his lieutenants. His hands were planted on his hips, his fusion cannon gleaming in the passing starlight and the multitude of floodlights. His grin displayed a mouth full of sharpened denta, a recent addition, perhaps meant to highlight his fierceness. His field blasted Optimus with glee.   
  
A Seeker had a grip on each elbow, but Optimus stood up straight, despite the agony rippling through him. He would meet Megatron on his own pedes with his optics bright, or he would offline here and now. He has lost the war, through trickery and deceit and betrayal, but he was not beaten.   
  
No matter what a pair of triplechangers had done to him.   
  
“Optimus Prime,” Megatron said, strutting forward as though he'd just won the lottery. “In Decepticon hands at last. I trust my soldiers treated you well.”   
  
The taste of transfluid was still sour on his glossa.   
  
“They've shown me a particular brand of Decepticon hospitality,” Optimus replied in a cool tone. He met Megatron's gaze, refusing to cast his optics downward.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I'm certain they did.” His attention shifted away from Optimus. “Astrotrain. Blitzwing. I don't get a chance to say this often to anyone, but good job.”   
  
The two triple-changers beamed, jostling each other. “I know we can't keep him,” Astrotrain said. “But maybe--”  
  
“A reward?” Megatron grinned at him. “I'm certain something can be arranged. Did you have someone in mind?”  
  
Optimus stiffened. Some _one_ not some _thing_? Was Megatron handing out his Autobot prisoners like prizes to his more loyal Decepticons? Optimus knew that many of the Autobots had become slaves in some capacity, but he'd assumed it was for a purpose. Not for... _this_.   
  
His engine revved.   
  
Skywarp cuffed him upside the helm. “Don't go getting any ideas.” He sneered, fingers tightening around Optimus' elbow. “You'd be dead before you took a step.”   
  
“I was dead before they found me,” Optimus replied, his tone mild but his field rapidly escaping his control.   
  
“No, but we were thinking, first choice?” Blitzwing said. He sounded far too greedy for Optimus' liking. Even his wings twitced as though eager to find a slave for their personal use.   
  
There were few Autobots of size with Optimus, he realized with dread. And of those who he knew still roamed free, there were none who could bear either mech's attention without agony. Perhaps Trailbreaker, not that Optimus would wish that future on anyone.   
  
“That can be arranged,” Megatron said. “Now take the rest of the week off. Consider it a preemptive reward.”   
  
Astrotrain and Blitzwing congratulated each other with more shoulder jostling before they saluted and took off, leaving Optimus with Megatron, his lieutenants, and Starscream's wingmates.   
  
Therefore, Optimus was not surprised when Starscream was the one to break the silence.   
  
“You should kill him,” he said, only to amend it with, “my lord,” when Megatron tossed a glare his direction.   
  
“That would be too easy,” Megatron declared, walking back toward Optimus with an assessing gaze. His optics scanned Optimus from helm to pede. “He won't suffer if I merely take his spark.”   
  
“He is a liability,” Starscream retorted. He stalked forward, his wings rigid and high on his back. His optics flashed, but he paid no attention to Optimus, his ire reserved for his leader alone.   
  
Megatron tossed his second a mild look. “Do you fear Optimus Prime?”   
  
Starscream went still, his field a jagged burst of outrage. “I fear no one,” he snarled.   
  
“Then we have nothing to worry about.” Megatron's lips pulled into a slow grin, and he grabbed Optimus' jaw before Optimus could tilt his helm away. “He is no threat.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrowed. “You would be wiser to listen to the counsel of your second, Megatron.”   
  
“Like you listened to yours?”   
  
Optimus jerked back as though struck, pulling himself from Megatron's grip. How could the warlord have known about that?  
  
“You'll find there is very little I don't know, Prime,” Megatron said and his attention shifted to Thundercracker and Skywarp. “You're dismissed. He's no threat.”   
  
Given his current state, Optimus couldn't argue otherwise. It took all of his willpower to remain standing as he was. His energy readings held steady at fifteen percent, but only because he operated the bare minimum.   
  
“Have fun.” Skywarp snickered.   
  
They abandoned their grip on Optimus and to his horror, he lurched, balance gone. He hadn't realized how much he'd depended on their support. An aborted step forward and his knee failed. Optimus dropped, barely managing to catch himself so that he half-knelt, half-crouched. His processor spun.   
  
“As you can see, Starscream, there's nothing to fear in Optimus Prime.” He heard, more than saw, Megatron's heavy tread as he walked away.  
  
If he could only get to his pedes, stop his processor from spinning, he could escape. He could turn and run, perhaps break the cuffs on his wrists somehow, tear off the inhibitors, and shift to alt-mode, no matter how agonizing it might be. The game would begin again, he hiding and the Decepticons giving chase.   
  
He could escape, if only he could stand.   
  
“Make the arrangements for another announcement,” Megatron was saying.   
  
Optimus lifted his helm, his vision swimming. He could see Megatron standing with his lieutenants, Starscream bearing a sneer, Soundwave, as always, his face a mask of emotion. He could see none of Soundwave's cassettes. If either of them had an Autobot slave, they hadn't brought their prisoner with them.   
  
Alerts flashed again, louder than before. He couldn't dismiss them this time. The trickle in his chassis still hadn't stopped. His energy levels dropped from fifteen to ten.   
  
_Stasis Imminent._   
  
Primus, no. He couldn't afford to go into stasis around these mechs. But his ventilations were slowing, and his processor spun and no matter how much he rebooted his optics, he couldn't see clearly. His audials glitched, Megatron's words coming to him filled with static and half-heard modifiers. Starscream's irritated mutter was the buzz of an Earth insect.   
  
Optimus' knee wobbled. His world went dark and light and dark again.   
  
_Stasis Initiated_ , his systems informed him. He couldn't deny it. He felt himself falling, but he never felt himself hit the ground.   
  


0o0o0

  
Optimus onlined to a sensation of familiarity. His audials and optics were disabled, causing a flash of panic, but a warm presence in his systems was enough to forestall the urge to thrash against the heavy weights he detected around his wrists and ankles. How many times had he onlined like this, after some great battle, with the weight of new repairs on his frame and the heavy slurry of sensor blocks sloshing around his system, and only this voice to reassure him?  
  
 _Ratchet_?  
  
 _Yes, it's me_ , Ratchet replied, the words coming through to him as text, streaming through his processor. He could read no emotion in them. _I am in the Constructicons' care_.   
  
Dismay filled Optimus' spark. _Care_?   
  
_Do not ask me to elaborate. For what it's worth, Optimus, I am sorry._  
  
 _For what?_  
  
But Ratchet did not respond and Optimus felt his chief medical officer and dear friend withdraw from his systems, the warmth of Ratchet's presence abandoning Optimus to the cold. His sensory suites rebooted themselves, reporting a thirty second delay before he would have full visual and audio.   
  
There was a hand on his right shoulder, the weight negligible but the field familiar. It squeezed briefly and then the hand was gone.   
  
His optics onlined with a buzz of static before his vision cleared. He found himself in a medbay, one much better equipped than what they'd had on the Ark, and he was surrounded by Decepticons. Well, Decepticons and Ratchet, who was hovering at his right, though no longer within reach.   
  
Ratchet looked marginally better than he had in the broadcast. His plating was clean, but dented beneath, and missing paint in patches. His optics were dim, his expression lacking the easygoing humor that had often made him the life of the party. His fingers, at least, had been fixed, but there were several new additions. He had a collar around his intake and cuffs around his wrists, though the latter weren't connected.  
  
Judging by the new weight around his own joints and at his intake, Optimus was sporting the same. He'd also been repaired, though his energy levels only read the bare minimum of thirty percent. Something was missing, other than his battle mask, which had neither been returned to him nor had they fashioned him a new one. What was it?  
  
Megatron stepped into view from behind the corral of bright purple and green – the entire Devastator gestalt. Optimus' berth began to tilt itself upright, putting him partially vertical. They'd strapped him to the medberth, and it was all that kept him from tumbling forward.   
  
“By now you'll have noticed your new accessories,” Megatron purred at him, so full of self-satisfaction that he resembled his second. “Those cuffs are welded and can't be removed. The collar is wired directly into your sensory network. As a precaution, I've also ensured that they removed all of your weaponry.”   
  
Optimus' self-diagnostic reported back to him everything Megatron had listed. Most of it was not unexpected. But there was another item missing, something so integral to his very being, that he was horrified.   
  
“And yes,” Megatron continued as he paced toward Ratchet, his hand resting on the medic's helm in a parody of a lover's affection. “We've throttled your engine and removed your transformation cog. Your medic was kind enough to show us how to do so without causing an operating glitch.”   
  
Ratchet wouldn't meet Optimus' optics. A small tremble raced through his frame at Megatron's touch. His lips pressed together, his fingers twisting around each other.   
  
Well, that explained the apology. And right now, Optimus couldn't even tell Ratchet that he wasn't angry. He didn't know what fresh Pit Ratchet had endured in the past couple of days and he was afraid to ask. How could he be angry?  
  
If Megatron had wanted to hammer home that there was no escape, he had succeeded.   
  
Optimus worked his intake, feeling the rough press of the collar against the delicate metal beneath it. “With such precautions, you must have considered me a danger.”  
  
“No. It is part of your punishment.” Megatron's hand slid to Ratchet's shoulder with a lingering caress before he turned back toward Optimus. “Only Decepticons are allowed the right to arm themselves and transform.”   
  
“I noticed Starscream still had his weapons.”   
  
Megatron gave him a startled look before he burst into a laugh. “I wonder how long you'll keep that attitude, Prime,” he said. “Release him from the berth, Scrapper. We have an appointment to keep.”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
Optimus heard a buzz and a click before the clamps released his wrists and ankles. He slid to the floor, legs wobbling as he braced his weight upon them. He felt better than he had in months with the majority of his repairs complete. All that he lacked was a full tank, though he doubted Megatron would give him one.   
  
He could, however, feel the absence of his transformation cog. Someone had indeed fiddled with the programming of his engine. He couldn't draw as much from it. The results left him feeling slow and cumbersome.   
  
Megatron's hand came into view and Optimus jerked back, not that he had anywhere to go, and not that it made a difference. Megatron grabbed his arm, yanked him forward, and with his other hand, attached a lead to Optimus' collar. The length of the chain was just long enough that he could direct Optimus' movements, but not give him any leeway.   
  
He grabbed Optimus' other hand and slapped a connector between his cuffs, pinning his arms together in front of him. He probably would have hobbled Optimus as well, if not for the need to make him walk.   
  
Megatron grabbed the dangling chain and gave it a tug, forcing Optimus to stagger forward. The approval in his optics churned Optimus' tank.   
  
“Come along, Prime,” he said airily, coiling the chain around his fingers. “Your audience awaits.”   
  
Optimus balked, for all the good it would do him. Megatron had always been stronger than him, and without the leverage and being underfuelled, Optimus was no match. He lurched after the warlord.   
  
“Audience?”  
  
They left the medbay and Optimus wasn't given a chance to speak with Ratchet, nor see him a final time. He couldn't turn around thanks to the collar, but he could feel his dear friend's regard.   
  
He wondered if he'd ever see Ratchet again.   
  
“Yes. The whole planet is waiting to see you.” Megatron tossed a grin over his shoulder. His fingers tightened around Optimus' lead. “I'm sure your precious Autobots will be glad to have word of your survival.”   
  
“Out of the kindness of your spark, I imagine.”   
  
Megatron barked a dark laugh. “Oh, yes. I'm generally inclined to claim what is rightfully mine. And this way, everyone knows it.”   
  
It became quite clear what Megatron meant when they stepped out the doors of the med building and into a courtyard. Other buildings surrounded it, some in greater repair than others, and the house of the Prime being one of those. Optimus was in the middle of Decepticon headquarters, being led like a slave by their master, and heading toward a stage.   
  
It was, in fact, the very same stage he'd watched countless times on his tiny screen as Megatron mocked the Autobots, handed out pets, and executed his prisoners. The very same one where he'd shown off Ratchet and executed Ironhide without mercy.   
  
A crowd had gathered, one even larger than what Optimus had seen for Ratchet. He hadn't realized there were so many Decepticons. How many had answered their leader's call? Far more than any of them could have anticipated.   
  
Megatron's lieutenants waited on the stage, Shockwave most notable for his absence, though that was not uncommon. He rarely took part in Megatron's shows. Optimus did not know what occupied his time, but he dreaded to find out. There were many Autobots unaccounted for, some of whom would be of interest to the scientist.   
  
But Starscream and Soundwave were there, plus another mech that Optimus did not recognize. He was tall and stately, his battle-grade armor an interesting contrast of dark purple and dark gray. His arms were crossed over his chestplate and the hilt of a large sword was just visible over his right shoulder.   
  
He caught and held Optimus' gaze, but nothing in his expression gave him away.   
  
“You fixed him?” Starscream screeched as they approached, his optics taking in Optimus' appearance before returning to Megatron with an accusing glare.   
  
Optimus drew up short and Megatron yanked on his lead. He doubted it had been intentional, however, as Megatron went tense all over.   
  
“It is my prerogative to do with my property as I want,” Megatron said, his vocals a low growl of warning. “And you do not question my judgment.”   
  
Starscream's face went through a wave of emotion before he visibly drew back, as though biting his glossa. “Of course, Lord Megatron,” he said and Optimus marveled at his restraint.   
  
This was how they had lost the war. Starscream, for once, obeying his master and Megatron, in turn, heeding Starscream's tactical advice.   
  
“I am merely concerned that a healthy Optimus Prime might present the wrong image.”   
  
Megatron scoffed and jerked the lead, forcing Optimus to stumble forward. “When they see how well he serves, there'll be no questions. Now. Is Reflector ready?”   
  
“Affirmative, Lord Megatron.” Soundwave was the one to answer. He stepped forward, the light in his visor traveling from Megatron to Optimus and back again.   
  
“Excellent.” Megatron grinned. “Come, Prime. Your audience awaits.”   
  
Starscream watched him pass, his optics glittering but nothing showing in his frame or his field. He tilted his helm upward, expression one of disdain, but that was it. Soundwave fell into step at Megatron's other side as they emerged onto the stage, the crowd of Decepticons lifting their vocals in a roar.   
  
Megatron could not have puffed any further, but he tried.   
  
He pulled Optimus to center stage and there he forced Optimus to kneel. The lead was attached to a ring welded to the stage, keeping his helm bowed for his comfort, though he could look up if he bore the pressure on his intake. It also put the crowd beneath in perfect view, and he could look on the gathered Decepticons, read their excitement, their lust, their disgust.   
  
Megatron's hand landed on his helm. “Broadcast this to every receiver. I want every Autobot, Decepticon, and Neutral to see it. I want them to understand that I have won,” he said to his lieutenants.   
  
“Acknowledged, Lord Megatron.”   
  
Optimus saw Reflector below, giving the thumbs up to prove that they were ready.   
  
“My loyal Decepticons!” Megatron's vocals boomed over the noisy crowd. His free hand lifted, a call to silence. “I come to you today to announce our ultimate victory. Not only have we beaten the Autobots and reclaimed our planet, but their leader is now in our possession. The great Optimus Prime, our prisoner at last.”   
  
Megatron's grip on Optimus' helm tightened and he tilted Optimus' helm up. This forced him to look over the helms of the cheering Decepticons and showcased the collar around his intake.   
  
“It is only a matter of time before we root out the rest of the cowards and put them where they belong: in shackles and in service,” Megatron continued, his vocals rising higher and higher to be heard over the celebrating Decepticons. “Cybertron is ours now, as it was always meant to be. And I say this to you, any Decepticon who brings me an Autobot – alive or dead – will be handsomely rewarded. This I promise. And as should be clear now, I keep my promises.”  
  
He grinned, the flash of his denta visible from the edge of Optimus' optical feed. His tank clenched. Did that mean Megatron would kill no more Autobots? But was that better or worse than slavery?  
  
The crowd roared their approval. It didn't take a mathematician to know that there were far more Decepticons than Autobots. What was Megatron going to do when he ran out of prizes to give?   
  
Optimus' tank churned. He would have rathered his Autobots die than face this fate.   
  
“This is the dawn of a new age,” Megatron continued and he pushed Optimus' helm back down, forcing him to bow to the Decepticon crowd. “This is not a time for Primes and Autobots. It is a time for Decepticons, for the rule of the strongest, my rule. We will crush anything that stands against us, just as we did the Autobots.”   
  
The cheers were enough to drown a mech. The Decepticons screamed and shouted and stomped their pedes. Someone began to chant their leader's name and once it started, it grew, louder and louder, until the whole courtyard vibrated to the sound.   
  
“Megatron! Megatron! Megatron!”   
  
Optimus nearly purged every drop of energon in his tank.   
  
“You see, Prime,” Megatron said, his vocals low enough for Optimus to pick up and no one else. His grip on Optimus' helm loosened by a fraction. “You never had a chance.”   
  
And that, apparently, was all he'd needed to say. The Decepticons cheered, but Megatron made his bows and Reflector stopped recording. Megatron unclipped Optimus from the ring and hauled him to his pedes. He coiled his hand around the leash once more and excused himself from the stage.   
  
“Come along, Prime,” he said, his field reeking of self-satisfaction. “Our work here is done.”   
  
What choice did Optimus have but to follow, to force one pede in front of the other, while humiliation sat like a lead weight on his shoulders. How many Autobots would see that broadcast? Would they be angry? Dispirited? Would they take a chance? He hoped not. He hoped they would take it as their cue to run for their sparks, hide for as long as possible.   
  
There was no way off planet for the Autobots. Not anymore. Megatron had seen to that. He'd methodically tracked down and executed any living Autobot who could leave Cybertron under their own power. Then he'd smelted down the frames to ensure his victory.   
  
The Aerialbots never stood a chance. Omega Supreme probably could have been rebuilt. But not now.   
  
A pang of guilt and grief hit Optimus' spark, hard enough to make him stumble. But Megatron neither noticed nor cared. He led Optimus off the stage and back to the central courtyard, where they crossed it to another familiar building – the residence of the Prime.  
  
“You still think it's wise to keep him alive?”   
  
The question startled Optimus and he wondered how he could have missed the fact that Starscream accompanied them, especially with his field. It was a swirl of dissatisfaction and discontent.   
  
Megatron tipped his helm. “I am not going to have this discussion again, Starscream.” They approached a lift and Megatron jabbed a finger on the call button. The doors opened immediately for him.   
  
Optimus did his best to remain silent. This was a look at the dynamic between Megatron and Starscream no one had ever seen. Plus, it had the benefit of directing their attention away from him. The longer the better.   
  
“He's a liability.”   
  
“And so are you.” Megatron's vocals became a growl of warning. “Unless this is just your jealousy talking. You said you didn't want an Autobot.”   
  
“I still don't,” Starscream snapped. “I didn't join the Decepticons because I wanted a slave.”   
  
“That has never been the goal. It is merely a charming bonus.” Megatron laughed and he gave a pointed tug to Optimus' leash. “It is what they deserve. Some even have their uses. After all, I don't see you working in the refineries.”  
  
Starscream huffed a ventilation. “Because I am more concerned with our future.” He scowled, one optic tilting toward Optimus before ignoring him again. “Unlike Shockwave.”   
  
“He's earned the chance to dabble.”   
  
“And I haven't?”   
  
Optimus winced. Yes, dear friends. That right there was a Starscream shriek. The Seeker was aptly named. Optimus' audials were ringing.   
  
The lift dropped them off at the top floor and Optimus followed behind Megatron like a dutiful pet, not even needing the occasional yank to keep him in line. The time for disobedience would come.   
  
“You might, if only you'd learn to be quiet,” Megatron hissed and his plating ruffled. The low hum of a fusion cannon entering the preparatory stages echoed in the empty halls around them.   
  
Starscream lapsed into silence, his optics cycling down. His wings twitched, and for a moment, Optimus thought he'd leave them be. But no, Starscream seemed to regain his courage and continued, as though he had a death wish.   
  
“Don't you think that your performance might have the opposite effect?”   
  
“Even if it did, there are hardly enough of them to pose a threat,” Megatron retorted, all but jamming his code into the panel. The door slid open with a whoosh of displaced air and he shoved Optimus through it.   
  
The Prime's suite. He wasn't surprised that Megatron had claimed it. They first stepped into the receiving room, a massive space with furniture and an energon dispenser, meant to entertain guests. Closed doors indicated more space beyond them.   
  
“You forget who is still out there,” Starscream snapped, entering after them.   
  
Megatron pushed them into the receiving room and he shoved Optimus down to his knees, his hand a firm grip on Optimus' shoulder. “Stay,” he said, and then his attention went back to Starscream. “There's no proof he's alive.”   
  
“Why don't you ask your pet?”   
  
“And if I actually believed I'd get the truth, I would.”   
  
Starscream scoffed, his wings flicking with agitation, first one and then the other. “He's alive. He's like a cockroach. And if you don't believe he'll come after his Prime, you're a bigger fool than I thought.”   
  
Megatron's engine growled. He took a step forward, prompting Starscream to retreat an equal distance. He still showed no fear.   
  
“He can try,” Megatron said, vocals low and careful. “But he will fail.”   
  
Starscream stared at him. “If only we all could be as confident as you,” he spat, and his optics flicked to Optimus. “Enjoy your pet. I hope he doesn't kill you while you recharge.”   
  
Starscream stormed out, wings high and arched, taking the swarm of anger and dissatisfaction with him. Not that Optimus was any more relieved. This left him alone with a frustrated Megatron.   
  
The warlord whirled on Optimus and stalked toward him. Optimus braced himself, preparing for the first blow, already planning how he could defend himself despite his wrists being bound. But all Megatron did was grab his hands and undo the connector, leaving his arms free to move.   
  
Was it a mercy? Optimus doubted it. Megatron probably had plans, plans that Optimus wanted no part of.   
  
Now might be the only chance he had.   
  
He swung at Megatron, catching the unaware warlord in the chestplate, driving him back a pace. Megatron, startled, and looked down at him. His optics blazed before his lips twisted into a sneer.   
  
“That almost hurt,” Megatron said.   
  
Optimus' engine rattled and he rushed Megatron again. He aimed for the fusion cannon arm, pushing it to the side as he directed another punch, this time to Megatron's face. Megatron ducked under it, spinning around Optimus with a speed few gave the massive warrior credit for. His hand planted in the middle of Optimus' back, giving him a great shove. Optimus stumbled, but was quick to turn, his spark thumping an off-rhythm in his chamber.   
  
It was a disastrously one-sided fight. Pathetic even. Megatron dodged his attacks with ease, cuffing him across the helm as one might a child or an errant pet. His blows were sharp, dizzying, and Optimus struggled to compensate. He felt as though more than his engine were throttled, as though Megatron had drugged him as well. It was hard to focus, harder still to keep on his pedes.   
  
Optimus landed a glancing blow on Megatron's shoulder, barely scraping the paint. Megatron grabbed his arm and slung him into the wall. Optimus bounced off the painted metal with a ring in his audials. He stumbled, regained his balance and swept something off a nearby table. A statue perhaps.   
  
He chucked it at Megatron, waited for the warlord to bat it aside, and charged. He felt slow and cumbersome, like a combiner up to its knees in mud, and gasped when Megatron batted him aside just as he had the statue.   
  
His vision swam.   
  
Megatron smirked at him, optics a coal-fire red.   
  
Electric pain rippled through Optimus' sensory net. He dropped to his knees, frame spasming as fire raced across every circuit, every line, burning him from the inside out. His vision went white; his audials buzzed with static. His spark throbbed and he dropped forward, to his hands, tank seizing.   
  
He barely felt the kick to the side, though it tossed him like so much scrap. The electric shock was brief, but the effects lingered. He couldn't close his fingers into a fist. He couldn't ventilate through the pain.   
  
Fingers wrapped around his arm, yanking him across the floor. Metal screeched on metal, paint leaving long strips behind. Optimus thrashed as a hand wrapped around his intake, shoving the collar hard against the delicate metal. His intake crackled a warning, pressure indicators shouting at him in red exclamations. Optimus gasped a ventilation.   
  
He slammed into the ground, the hand around his intake serving as a warning. Megatron loomed over him, only half a helm taller but suddenly as big as Omega Supreme. Optimus' optics kept fuzzing, and he sent a second request for a reboot. He couldn't seem to focus. His hands scrabbled at Megatron, but his fingers spasmed, unable to do anything more than paw uselessly.   
  
“Do you know how long I've had these, Prime?” Megatron asked, his tone mild but something darker hiding behind them. “The moment we couldn't find your frame in the graying rubble of Omega Supreme, I knew I would need them. I had Shockwave make them for me. Something strong enough to hold a Prime.”   
  
Optimus' vocalizer spat static.   
  
Megatron's smirk was the only clear thing he could see. “It hurts, doesn't it? And that was only a mild shock. I'm not inclined to kill you.”   
  
Optimus twisted beneath him, but his frame wouldn't obey his commands. His optics finally reset, bringing his world into clarity, not that it helped. His legs still spasmed. Megatron was over him, burning ex-vents scorching Optimus' plating, the stink of rising charge around him like a plasma cloud.   
  
“You behave, you get fuel,” Megatron said, and his free hand pressed on Optimus' ventral armor, a parody of a caress. “You don't behave, you get pain. It's a simple concept.”   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. He tried to twist his frame away from Megatron's questing hand. Megatron settled between his legs, pinning him in place.   
  
“I'd rather offline,” Optimus spat. He refused to become Megatron's obedient pet.   
  
Megatron nuzzled at Optimus' faceplate. “Not yet, my Prime. You haven't suffered nearly enough.”   
  
He pawed at Optimus' interface array, fingers pressing against the seams and the panel protecting his valve. His ventilations were ragged.   
  
“Open,” Megatron demanded.   
  
His hand moved to Optimus' hip and he hauled Optimus onto his lap. Optimus' thighs splayed wide, offering his array to Megatron.   
  
He heard the click of a panel popping and felt the wet slide of a transfluid-slick spike nudging at his array. Megatron was hot, burning like the smelter pit of Kaon.   
  
Optimus scraped useless fingers on Megatron's arm. He turned his face away from the warlord and shuttered his optics. He felt vulnerable without his battlemask and he knew his expressions showed. He was far too easy to read. It wasn't quite panic that strobed his spark, but it was a near thing.   
  
Megatron, at least, was smaller than Blitzwing. Though he doubted Megatron was any more inclined to be gentle.   
  
_Move it or lose it, Prime_ , the triple-changer had said.   
  
Optimus wondered how long Megatron would let him keep that dignity. He cycled a long ventilation and triggered the command to open his panel.   
  
Megatron chuckled and nuzzled against the side of his helm, lips teasing Optimus' audial. “So cooperative,” he purred, hand at last leaving Optimus' intake, but only to dip between his thighs.   
  
Blunt fingers poked at his valve, sweeping around the rim before two plunged into the dry depths. They prodded around experimentally before finding a sensory node and rubbing it with abandon.   
  
Optimus jerked, backstrut arching at the unexpected flash of pleasure, however faint. This he had not expected. He was not as dry as he expected to be either. This was not from self-lubrication, no, but something else. Nanite gel, perhaps. Had Blitzwing damaged him enough to need repairs?  
  
Megatron's fingers continued to work at his node, as though he cared about Optimus' pleasure. “Do you know, Prime, how often I've imagined you like this,” Megatron said, his mouth a sloppy mess on the side of Optimus' face. “Pinned beneath me? Open and desperate? Eager for my spike?”   
  
Optimus' engine weakly growled. “Was I always unwilling in your fantasies, Megatron?”   
  
“Always,” Megatron replied with a little laugh. “But not by the end, my Prime. Not by the end.”   
  
His fingers withdrew, a faint moisture clinging to them. Both hands gripped Optimus' hips, the blunt head of Megatron's spike nudging at his valve. Megatron shifted so that he loomed over Optimus, his lips no longer in reach, but all the better to keep him pinned. His fingers dug into the seams of Optimus' hips, hooked around armor plates.   
  
The twitching, at least, had gone. The electric sting of the shock collar and cuffs were a lingering memory.   
  
“Look at me.”   
  
Optimus shuttered his optics, pressing his lipplates together. He turned his helm as far as the limits of his flexibility, his fingers drawing into tight fists.   
  
Megatron rolled his hips, spike knocking at Optimus' valve, stirring the thin trail of lubricant left by his fingers.  
  
“You were much more obedient in my fantasies,” Megatron said. “Ah, no matter. You'll learn soon enough.” He thrust into Optimus without pause, burying himself to the hilt.   
  
He gave no quarter, no rest. Not like Blitzwing. Arguably, the triple-changer had been worse. But Megatron, at least, was of a size more compatible, though the scrape of his spike burned in Optimus' valve. He was not lubricated enough, not that it mattered to Megatron.   
  
Megatron who gripped his hips, yanking him back for each thrust. He hunched over Optimus as if he were a beast, and even rutted like one. His ventilations were sharp and stuttered, to the rhythm of his desperate, rapid thrusts. Optimus' back scraped across the floor; his hips protested the violent slam of frame against his frame. His valve was a thing of fire, no pleasure, only pain.   
  
Optimus gritted his denta, swallowed down a whimper, and tried to disable his vocalizer, only to find that he could not. He no longer had the permissions to access his own frame. Something else Megatron had stolen from him.   
  
Megatron stabbed into his valve as though his spike were a sword, meant to tear Optimus in two. He sought his overload with the kind of reckless abandon Optimus had only ever seen in beasts. The clang of their frames was lost to the roar of Megatron's fans, until he abruptly pulled out, dropping Optimus' hips in the same motion.   
  
That was when Optimus felt the scalding splatter on his array and his pelvic span and his abdominal plating. Several splashes of transfluid painted him to the tune of Megatron's low groan of satisfaction.   
  
He was still between Optimus' legs, preventing him from closing them. Optimus' valve calipers clutched on empty space, torn between the initial flashes of pleasure and pulsing pain.   
  
He heard the slick slide of Megatron pumping his own spike, drawing out his pleasure, and a final spurt hit Optimus' array. He felt it trickle between his thighs and over his valve.   
  
Megatron purred to himself. “Adequate,” he said, and patted Optimus on the knee. “You'll do better next time.” He rose to his pedes, leaving Optimus room to close his legs and turn on his side. His hips protested, aching at the joints.   
  
Optimus onlined his optics, watching Megatron cross the room to a small cabinet. There he pulled out a cube of energon, dimly glowing – midgrade. Optimus' tank clenched in hunger, reminding him that he was running on the bare minimum.   
  
Megatron closed the cabinet, cube in hand, and sat down in a nearby chair, sprawled as though he were exhausted. He took a long pull of his energon, draining half in one go, his gaze never leaving Optimus. His expression was unreadable behind the obvious satisfaction.   
  
Optimus struggled off his side, an awkward push of his elbow getting him upright and onto his knees. He closed his panel, though he could still feel Megatron's spill within him. He doubted he'd be allowed into the washracks to clean himself. He cycled a ventilation, trying not to look as weary as he felt.   
  
“What purpose does this serve, Megatron?”   
  
The warlord swept his glossa over his lips and swirled the energon about, taunting Optimus with it. “None.”   
  
Optimus' shoulders slumped. “Then allow the Autobots to go. Off world even. You've won.”   
  
“Yes, I have,” Megatron said. He lenaed one elbow against the arm of his chair, fingers stroking his chin. “And no, I will not. The Autobots must face their punishment. They do not deserve their freedom.”   
  
Optimus worked his intake. “Freedom is not something which must be earned. It is a right.”   
  
Megatron waved a dismissing hand. “Yes, the right of all sentient beings. How many times have I heard that before, Prime?”   
  
“Then you'd think, by now, it would have sunk in.”   
  
Megatron snorted. “It's a fool's dream. No one's ever free, Prime. We're all bound by something, even if it's so pure as duty or honor.”   
  
He raised his energon to his mouth and drained the last of it, crushing the cube in his grip. As though he needed to prove how much more superior he was.   
  
“You're in no danger of offlining,” Megatron said as he tossed the cube toward a recycling bin. “And you haven't earned your share yet.”   
  
“Earned,” Optimus repeated. The word tasted sour to him.   
  
Megatron shifted on the chair, making himself more comfortable. “Yes, earned. As in obedience.” He patted his lap. “Come here. On your hands and knees.”   
  
So that his aft might wave in the air as if in invitation? Absolutely not. Optimus didn't move, only affixing Megatron with a glare.   
  
Megatron raised his orbital ridges. “That is not obedience, Prime.” He braced his elbows on the arms of the chair and laced his fingers together. “Do you need another lesson about the consequences of your actions?”   
  
“If you wanted easy, you would have killed me,” Optimus said, lifting his chin.   
  
He could handle pain. He had been built to handle pain. But opening his panel so as not to damage it, was not the same as willingly crawling across the floor to Megatron.   
  
He would not do it.   
  
“This is true.” Megatron's helm dipped, his expression buried behind his hands. “Fortunately, this is still entertaining to me.” His optics darkened.   
  
Pain seized Optimus, twice as bad as before. He dropped, entire frame thrashing on the floor as his internals lit up with fire. He could see the electricity crawling out of his plating. He felt it burning through his circuits and several smaller ones popped, unable to contain the current. He smelled burnt metal and saw curls of smoke rise to the ceiling.   
  
He gasped for ventilations, but his fans stalled. Not even his cooling fans seemed to be working. Stars danced in his optics. He couldn't hear anything over the static in his audials.   
  
And then the current was gone, leaving the pain. Leaving him shaking on the floor, frame locked tight, his spark spinning wildly. Oh, Primus. He felt dry, drained of all fluids, and his coolant was distressingly low. His awareness drifted toward gray. He couldn't see because his optics wouldn't boot. Had they burnt out? He didn't know.   
  
Hands wrapped around his ankle, dragging him across the floor. The scrape of his plating was nothing compared to the agony in his lines. He heard the rale of chains, felt something attach to the cuffs at his ankles, and then the cuffs on his hands. Another lead snapped to his collar and Optimus still couldn't see. It was hard enough to ventilate.   
  
“It can still get worse,” Megatron said, though nothing in his voice sounded angry. As though he'd anticipated Optimus' refusal and enjoyed it. “Perhaps tomorrow you'll be more cooperative.”   
  
Optimus tried to boot his optics, his vocalizer, but nothing obeyed him. The gray grew heavier, leaning toward black.   
  
A hand patted his helm. “Recharge well, Prime.”   
  
He never heard if Megatron walked away or not. His systems screamed for an immediate shut down and Optimus obeyed them.   
  
Right now, he'd rather the black.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to list characters and warnings on a chapter by chapter basis with the standard overall warning of slavery, noncon/rape, and triggery content. 
> 
> Characters: Megatron/Optimus, Hound, Onslaught, Swindle, Jazz, Bluestreak, Blast Off, First Aid, Shockwave, Grimlock, Constructicons/Ratchet  
> Warnings: Humiliation, Forced Bondage, Forced Oral, Noncon/Rape, Triggery Content
> 
> Mood Music: "Toward the End," Within Temptation

Optimus onlined in a flash, a stinging pain radiating through his face as his optics and audials snapped to awareness. Static fizzed from his visual feed, coalescing into an image of Megatron leaning over him, as smirk on the warlord's face.  
  
“Time to go to work, Prime,” he said.  
  
Optimus bit back a groan and shifted his weight. He checked his chronometer, surprised to find that more than a day had passed since he was last online. That was a long time to be in recharge, but – he checked himself – nothing new had appeared since then. He still had the same shackles and collar, and was still leashed to the wall. Though now he sat upright against it, his legs sprawled out in front of him.  
  
“I hope you rested well,” Megatron said as he stood over Optimus. One pede planted to either side of Optimus' thighs, until he could see nothing but the dark gray of Megatron's pelvic array. “You have a busy day ahead of you.”  
  
Optimus turned his helm away, shuttering his optics. “I would rather stay chained to this wall.”  
  
“That is not an option.” Megatron's hand landed on his helm, turning his face back toward Megatron's pelvic array. Megatron's free hand rested on the span of it, fingers tapping the panel that concealed his spike.  
  
Optimus grimaced. Megatron truly lacked imagination.  
  
“Your energon levels must be getting low. Open your mouth.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Megatron shook his helm, clicking his glossa. “Have you not learned your lesson from yesterday?”  
  
“I have learned pain.” He looked up at Megatron, optics narrowed, but the heat behind them reflected his fury. “It is not the worst you can do to me.”  
  
Megatron's field hit him like a blaster shot, a dizzying swamp of irritation and amusement, somehow both at once.  
  
“You're right,” he said with a dark laugh. “It's not.” He released his hold on Optimus' helm with a sharp push and knocked his helm against the wall.  
  
It caused a brief fuzz of static in Optimus' optics. It was a petty retort. But he supposed any damage, no matter how small, was acceptable to Megatron.  
  
Optimus looked up, confused, as Megatron detached his lead from the wall, and hooked it to the connector at Optimus wrists. His pedes were unlocked as well, leaving him free to take off and run if he so chose. He would have to find some means of removing the shackles at his wrists and that damned shock collar first.  
  
It couldn't be that easy.  
  
Optimus hesitated, his frown deepening.  
  
Megatron ignored him. Instead, he took a step back and activated his comm.  
  
“Bring him in,” Megatron said. His attention returned to Optimus, his field thick with self-satisfaction. “You see, Prime. While you were sleeping, I've been working. Tracking down the pathetic remains of your army.”  
  
Optimus' optics cycled wider. Dread curdled in his tanks, mingling with the warnings that he was only at twenty-five percent capacity.  
  
He heard the outer doors open, followed by the sounds of several pedesteps before three mechs came into view, two Decepticons dragging an Autobot between them. Optimus didn't recognize these Decepticons from the Earth crew, but he did recognize his Autobot.  
Of the mechs left in hiding, Hound was one of the last Optimus expected to be caught by Megatron, if at all.  
  
The green tracker was energon-stained and bruised, as though he had been treated to the same Decepticon hospitality as Optimus. One optic was shattered, the other flickered on and off. His plating was scorched, they'd ripped his shoulder-mounted launcher off, and his armor was a pockmark of bullet holes.  
  
Optimus lurched forward, but Megatron intercepted him with a blow to the face that felt almost casual, for all that it sent Optimus' processor into a spin. He groaned, thoughts fuzzy, catching himself on his bound wrists.  
  
“He's alive,” Megatron said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “And since you don't want to cooperate, I'll have to find a substitute.”  
  
He pressed the tip of his thumb to Hound's lips, sweeping away trickles of energon. “He'll probably be more cooperative anyway.”  
  
“No.” Optimus groaned and shook his helm. His optics wouldn't focus, sending him error messages. His intake squeezed as though the collar were tightening around it.  
  
“He's a bit on the small side,” Megatron said.  
  
Hound's captors released him, taking several steps back, giving Megatron room to circle around Hound. He reached out, poking and prodding at the green scout as though evaluating him for future use. Hands and legs dripping with chains, Hound didn't move. He didn't speak either.  
  
But his one functioning optic focused on Optimus. As though demanding for him to do something, to be the leader he's supposed to be.  
  
“He'll probably need a more gentle touch,” Megatron continued, musing aloud. “But who has the patience for that?”  
  
Optimus growled, his engine responding to his growing panic. “Megatron.”  
  
The warlord continued to circle around Hound, once more arriving at Hound's front, his hand measuring the breadth of Hound's array. His fingers swept across it, tracing the seams of the protective panel. Hound shuddered and drew into himself.  
  
“I think he'll do, however,” Megatron said.  
  
“Megatron!” Optimus threw himself forward, hoping it was what Megatron wanted. Hoping that his desperation would grant him a mercy.  
  
He couldn't sit here and watch this. Not while remembering the look in Ratchet's optics, his apology filled with self-loathing. If he could save at least one, if he could spare Hound that indignity... it would be worth it.  
  
He couldn't let Hound suffer for his own sake. He couldn't.  
  
His gyros still spun. Optimus half-sprawled across the floor, limited by the reach of his chains, and he heard the stifled laughter of the watching Decepticons.  
  
Optimus only had optics for Megatron. He was the one who made the rules.  
  
Megatron half-turned as though just noticing Optimus. “Did you say something, Prime?” He looked down at his sprawled slave.  
  
Optimus worked his intake, his ventilations stuttering. The words felt trapped on his vocalizer. His tank squeezed.  
  
There was no guarantee this would work. No guarantee that it would buy him anything but more humiliation and pain. But could he do nothing, turn his helm, with Hound standing there? Staring at him with one functioning optic while Megatron pawed at him as though he were some buymech on the street?  
  
He'd failed them all once already.  
  
Optimus' helm lowered. “I'll do it,” he said, barely above a whisper. The admission felt torn from his vocalizer and was gilded with static.  
  
Megatron turned away from Hound and stepped closer, the sheer presence of him looming over Optimus. “I didn't hear you.”  
  
Optimus glared, though his gaze was affixed on the floor. Submissive. Yielding.  
  
“I said that I will do it.”  
  
The tip of Megatron's pede nudged his chin, forcing him to look upward. “And why don't I believe you, Prime?”  
  
His frame shook. “You have my word.”  
  
Megatron laughed, a push of his pede urging Optimus upright before he stepped even closer, mimicking the pose he had taken earlier. He was close enough that Optimus could smell the heat of his arousal.  
  
“Prove it,” Megatron purred, and given their current position, all Optimus could see of him was again, the dark gray of his pelvis and the seams of his interfacing array. Megatron had yet to open them.  
  
Optimus could lean a fraction to his left and he would be able to see Hound. He imagined that his soldier wouldn't be able to look at him in return. He imagined that Hound was begging for his protection. He imagined that Hound had seen the broadcasts and maybe, it didn't matter either way.  
  
Into the fire.  
  
Optimus looked up at Megatron. “You'll let him go?” Why was he requesting a promise of a Decepticon? What weight did it carry? Yet he found himself asking anyway, if only to settle his own spark.  
  
He tried. He could at least say that he tried.  
  
“I'll let him live. Anything further depends on you.”  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. Megatron still had to open his panel. He intended to make this difficult. Ugh. Optimus offlined his optics. Better if he didn't have to look.  
  
He leaned forward and nuzzled against Megatron's panel, feeling the heat of him against his cheek. The watching Decepticons snickered. Hound's chains rattled but why, Optimus could not see.  
  
Megatron hummed his approval. “Go on.” His hand, at least, stayed away from Optimus' helm.  
  
Optimus braced himself and parted his lips, the tip of his glossa touching the heat of Megatron's panel. He heard the warlord cycle a sharp ventilation before Optimus continued, tracing the seams of Megatron's array with his glossa. He left a trail of oral lubricant behind.  
  
Only the act itself was unpleasant. Megatron, at least, was clean. It did not reflect the blackness of his spark unfortunately. Optimus did not know if it was better or worse.  
  
The rumble in Megatron's engine grew stronger, vibrating against Optimus' lips. But Megatron said nothing. He supposed the silence was approval.  
  
Optimus ex-vented and picked up the pace. He flattened his glossa over the panel concealing Megatron's spike and stroked his cheek against the dark gray plating. He soaked Megatron's array with his oral lubricants until at last, the panel slid aside and Megatron's spike slowly pressurized, glossy as it emerged.  
  
Optimus drew it into his mouth, the tip of his glossa playing with the transfluid slit, much to Megatron's delight. A hand rested on his helm, less to guide and more to encourage, a thumb sweeping over Optimus' audial. He expected Megatron to dismiss their audience, but no, Optimus' humiliation would not be complete without one.  
  
He let Megatron slip deeper into his mouth, knowing well enough to keep his denta out of play. He stroked the length of it with his glossa, and applied pressure with his lips. Oral lubricant dribbled down his throat and from the corners of his mouth, but Optimus didn't want to drag this out.  
  
A second hand landed on his helm, this time more forceful. Megatron rocked into Optimus' mouth at a faster face. He urged Optimus to take him deeper and deeper with each thrust. His spike throbbed in Optimus' mouth, pre-fluid streaming from his spike. He grunted above Optimus, hips surging forward, his spike bumping the back of Optimus' intake.  
  
He gagged, not that it stopped Megatron. There was a noise, like a muffled laugh, before Megatron's grip on Optimus' helm become immovable. He shoved himself into Optimus' mouth without care. It was all Optimus could do to keep his mouth open, keep from scraping denta against sensitive metal, lest Megatron take it for an attack.  
  
When Megatron finally overloaded, it was to Optimus' relief. Jets of scalding transfluid shot down his intake, giving him no choice but to swallow. He swore he could feel it coursing through him, slithering all the way down to his tanks. One spurt, then two, and Megatron pulled out enough to leave a dribble of transfluid on Optimus' glossa before the final two surges splattered on Optimus' face, narrowly missing an optic.  
  
Megatron stepped back with a pat of satisfaction to Optimus' helm as Optimus coughed, spitting the transfluid off his glossa. Globs of it splattered to the floor as his vents heaved, struggling to clear themselves of the unwelcome spill. He could still feel it clinging to his lower lipplate, and to his face. The scent of it filled his olfactory sensors.  
  
Megatron stared down at Optimus, lips curled with rebuke. “Che,” he said. “You’re wasting your breakfast.” He cuffed Optimus across the helm, a comparatively light blow. “Clean it up.”  
  
Optimus brought up his chained wrists, wiping off his mouth before he let his hands settle in his lap again. He ignored the command, staring down at the splatter on the floor. His jaw ached. His tank churned.  
  
They had been fighting for millennia. But never once had Optimus hated Megatron. He had been disappointed. He had hoped that the warlord might come to accept a truce. He had understood Megatron's original intentions. He had pitied Megatron. But the war had never been personal to him. It had been an unfortunate consequence.  
  
Optimus had never hated Megatron.  
  
But he stared down at the transfluid he'd spat out and something a lot like loathing coiled within his spark.  
  
“Still haven't learned, Prime?” Megatron stepped aside, giving Optimus clear sight of Hound, who had something akin to horror painted onto his faceplate. Megatron gestured toward him. “Perhaps your Autobot is hungrier.”  
  
Optimus' optics widened. Hound made a sound of protest and an aborted step forward, his functioning optic flicking to Megatron before he retreated that half-step.  
  
Yes, Optimus reasoned as he looked down at the spill on the floor, some of it dripping from his face to join the mess. He could see where hate might have its roots.  
  
His faceplate burned. His tank churned. He felt the optics watching him, three pairs of burning red, and one single, flickering blue.  
  
He braced his elbows on the floor, bent himself in two, and he cleaned up his mess. He licked the floor clean, tasting grit and transfluid and humiliation, all of it burning as it slid like curdled coolant down his intake. He would argue that the floor was cleaner than before, and he couldn't look at anyone by the time he finished.  
  
Megatron vibrated with approval. He turned his back on Hound, striding toward Optimus once more. His fingers made a quick sweep of Optimus' face, gathering up the last few dribbles of transfluid. He thrust them toward Optimus' mouth, wriggling his fingers.  
  
“Remember not to bite,” Megatron said.  
  
Optimus affixed him with a glare, but he obeyed, drawing Megatron's fingers into his mouth and licking them clean with quick sweeps of his glossa. What was one or two more globs compared to what he had already done?  
  
Megatron grinned and patted his helm. “Good boy.”  
  
He stepped in front of Optimus and addressed his Decepticons. “Take the Autobot to the holding pen for now. See that his immediate injuries are taken care of so that he doesn't offline. I'll decide what to do with him later.”  
  
“Yes, sir!”  
  
They left and Optimus did not watch them go. Instead, he stared at the floor, at the shadows against the polished metal, his mouth tasting dry and sour. Tasting, he reasoned, like shame and defeat.  
  
His fuel tanks reported a half percent increase, marginal at best.  
  
Megatron's hand rested on his helm again, stroking him as one might a turbofox or similar pet. “That wasn't so hard, now was it, Prime?”  
  
He jerked his helm out from under Megatron and scuttled away from the warlord, doing his best to put distance between them. “Don't patronize me.”  
  
Megatron laughed and pulled a mesh cloth out of subspace, tossing it in Optimus' general direction. “Clean yourself up. We have several appointments to keep.”  
  
“More displays of your might?” Optimus asked, refusing to keep the bitterness out of his vocals. He would have rathered a trip to the washracks, but the cloth was better than nothing, even if it could do little for the mess staining his thighs from Megatron's prior assault.  
  
“Of a sort.” Megatron left him on the floor, heading into the next room. Optimus had no doubt that the doors were locked and security around every corner. “You should be happy. You're being allowed to leave this room.”  
  
Optimus frowned. He gave himself a cursory swipe with the mesh cloth, longing for some washracks, solvent, and a wool scrub brush. Even if it took half his paint with it.  
  
Megatron strolled back into sight, an energon cube in hand. He tipped it back, easily draining more than two-thirds of the liquid in one pull. He smacked his lips noisily and strode up to Optimus, curling a finger under the collar. His knuckle put pressure on Optimus' intake as he tugged, forcing Optimus to stand if he didn't want to risk injury.  
  
Megatron swished the energon cube at him. “Tell me, Prime, what do your energy levels report?”  
  
Optimus' hands clenched into fists. “Adequate.”  
  
“I'll decide what's adequate. Open.”  
  
His fuel tank growled at him. His mouth filled with oral lubricant. The energon was of a shade that spoke of solar-refinement, sweet and airy to the taste. It had been a rare but welcome treat during their tenure on Earth. Optimus could only wonder if this was Megatron's special stock or if he'd somehow acquired more.  
  
Optimus opened his mouth and Megatron tipped his helm back with a nudge to the bottom of his jaw. He trickled the energon down Optimus' intake, an action that might have been seen as servile to anyone else. But Optimus knew better than that.  
  
The energon warmed on the way down. It was smooth and sweet when a few stray drops hit his glossa, just as he imagined it would be, and it filled his tank with warmth. Optimus almost moaned his approval before he managed to lock it back.  
  
His energy levels climbed back up a paltry eight percent. There'd only been enough in the cube for a mouthful.  
  
Megatron grinned and crushed the cube. He tossed it in the corner to join a stack of other crumpled containers. “I expect you'll thank me for that later,” he said, and dropped his hold on Optimus' collar.  
  
Optimus stumbled and was quick to catch himself, focusing on the odd sensation of nice, clean energon on his glossa. It washed away the sour flavor of transfluid and grit. He swept his glossa around his mouth, gathering up every last trace of the energon.  
  
He stared at the ground and surreptitiously watched Megatron retrieve various accessories and return.  
  
Megatron clipped the lead back to Optimus collar and bound his arms behind his back. All the better to keep him pacified, Optimus supposed. Only then did Megatron leave his quarters, Optimus trailing along after him like an obedient slave.  
  
There was a time and a place for disobedience. Now was not so. Despite how much it would unsettle him, he did want to see which of his Autobots had survived. And which he should begin to mourn.  
  
They exited the Prime Residence, passed the medical facility, and headed into Iacon proper. The city was a fascinating mix of rebuild and ruin. Megatron had obviously made some attempt to reconstruct what had been lost, though to be fair, the Autobots had abandoned Iacon before Megatron could raze it to the ground. Most of the infrastructure had remained sound.  
  
But the Decepticons had only built outward, in a circular pattern from Iacon center. Optimus could see the clear line between progress and stagnation, where they focused on current projects while other structures were tagged as next in line. He passed a few sites being directed by individual Constructicons, recognizing Mixmaster, Scrapper, and Long Haul among them.  
  
A few businesses had taken over the buildings abandoned by their original owners. Places that sold weapons, flavored energon, detailing, and upgrades. There were Decepticons everywhere, more than Optimus could recognize, and every one of them stopped to stare. Of course they would recognize Optimus. His image had been plastered on every piece of Decepticon propaganda as _The Enemy_ just as Megatron had been the symbol for the Decepticons.  
  
Optimus, however, did not see a single Autobot. If they were being used for slave labor, he couldn't see where.  
  
“You see, Prime,” Megatron said after they completed a circuit and he aimed Optimus back toward the central compound. “We have no need for Autobots.”  
  
He set his jaw. “And yet, here I am, collared and leashed.”  
  
“Indeed. Because we have no use for you otherwise. We will be rid of every last one of you eventually, and then I can build my empire as I please.” Megatron flashed him a grin. “No one will ever forget my name.”  
  
Optimus paused, there on the edge of Iacon, and oddly, Megatron did not tug him along. He turned to look back at Optimus, his orbital ridges raised.  
  
“How long do you think you can sustain it?” Optimus demanded as his hands curled into fists. “Cybertron plummets through space without end. The planet is dead and only Primus knows how you're getting your energon. And yet, all you can think about is the glory of your empire?”  
  
“Among other things.” Megatron's optics darkened, but for the moment, it wasn't with the kind of anger that led to physical repercussions. “Lest you forget, Autobot, that it was my empire that lead to your defeat.”  
  
Optimus scoffed, rolling his optics. “And it only took you millennia upon millennia of battle. So much for the Decepticon might. You call us soft-sparks but we stood up to you, didn't we?”  
  
“You did,” Megatron acknowledged and he moved closer, until the edges of his field brushed against Optimus', not that he could read anything of it. “And look at what it brought you. How many of your Autobots are dead, Optimus? How many have you failed?”  
  
Optimus' spark stuttered.  
  
Megatron's lips curled into a slow, steady smirk. “You and your pathetic civilians were outnumbered and outclassed from the beginning. How many times did I offer you the chance to surrender and you refused?”  
  
“You would have turned us into slaves!” Optimus spat, anger making him shake, making him lose control. “And then you would have turned your optics on the rest of the universe. I couldn't allow that!”  
  
“Look where you are,” Megatron said, with a grand gesture of his free hand. “Exactly where you feared you would be, only hundreds upon thousands of Autobots lesser. In the end, what did you gain?”  
  
Optimus' tank churned. “You are a hypocrite,” he bit out, the shame coiling within him. Worse because he couldn't argue with Megatron. The Slaghead was right.  
  
Optimus had failed by every definition of the word. What had he accomplished? Nothing but the destruction of their world, the death of the mechs who believed in him, and he'd even gone so far as to drag their war to Earth! Into the arms of a whole planet of innocents.  
  
But Megatron was not so blameless either.  
  
“You claim you started the Decepticons to rise up against oppression, but the moment the opportunity arose, you became a tyrant yourself,” Optimus hissed out, feeling the weight of the collar around his intake. “How does that make you any better than the senators and council you slayed?”  
  
Megatron jerked him closer, sending his ventilations stuttering.  
  
“I am better, Prime,” he said, with a sneer and a roar of his engine, “because I am only giving punishment where it is due. Don't stand here and call yourself innocent.”  
  
Optimus tipped his helm back as far as he could from Megatron's ex-vents. “It is not justice.”  
  
“Well, no one said it had to be fair.” Megatron loosened his hold, a bit of his humor returning. “Now come. Our tour is not finished.”  
  
Megatron turned once more to go, but Optimus refused. He went so far as to take a step back.  
  
“Where are my Autobots?” he demanded. He suspected Megatron wouldn't want to shock him here. It would both make a scene and make Optimus immobile, which would be an inconvenience.  
  
Then again, Megatron might chose to shoot him here and now and save them all the trouble. One could only hope.  
  
Megatron's optics narrowed. “They aren't yours anymore,” he said in a low tone. “And you haven't earned the right to any of them.”  
  
Optimus felt himself start to shake, no matter how much he fought it. “You can do to me whatever you feel I deserve, Megatron. But what you've done to my soldiers, my friends, I can't countenance that.” His spark felt as though it was swelling in his chassis. The empty mounts where his weapons had been ached. “You started this Primus bedamned war and-- erk!”  
  
Megatron jerked the leash, yanking Optimus forward, causing his vocalizer to disengage with a squeal. The warlord's optics flashed, his grip tightening on the chain until Optimus' helm was placed lower than his, the pressure harsh on his intake.  
  
“And I finished it,” Megatron snarled, the heat of his ex-vents boiling against Optimus' plating. “To the victor go the spoils, isn't that what your precious organics said? The moment I claimed victory was the moment you lost the right to anything, Optimus Prime. And what I do with you, with your soldiers, is no concern of yours. They, like you, are mine.”  
  
Optimus' engine revved weakly – the throttling taking effect – but he could turn his frame, could throw himself forward, aiming the harsh ridge of his shoulder at Megatron's ventral armor. It was an action Megatron sidestepped as he gave a harsh jerk to the chain, harsh enough that Optimus' processor spun. A backhand made him stumble, but the chain brought him up short.  
  
Megatron wound it around and around his hand until there were mere inches between them, until Optimus rose on the tips of his pedes, his face close enough to catch Megatron's oral ex-vents against it. They puffed against his unguarded lips, so close to those sharpened denta.  
  
“Do you understand?” he demanded.  
  
Optimus refused to answer. He affixed his tormentor with a glare, certain that no words could pierce the fog of Megatron's madness.  
  
The rumble of a powerful engine interrupted their stand off. Optimus couldn't say that he was relieved. It only meant that Megatron's wrath would be stored for later. It was only physical pain but it still hurt.  
  
Megatron shoved him away and Optimus staggered back a pace, managing to keep his pedes beneath him. He couldn't go far because of the leash, but the distance between them was welcome.  
  
He, like Megatron, turned toward the approaching Decepticons, actually recognizing the two that approached. Onslaught and his subordinate Swindle, both in alt-mode, though they shifted to root mode when they were close enough.  
  
“Lord Megatron,” Onslaught greeted in a crisp tone, his vocals thin with respect but lacking the near-worship many of Megatron's other soldiers presented. That obedience coding rankled, didn't it? “Soundwave informed me that you were here.”  
  
Megatron made a low noise of disgruntlement. “Is there a reason you tracked me down or were you interested only in banal chatter?”  
  
Onslaught visibly checked himself, though his visor narrowed by a fraction. He pulled a datapad from substance, presenting it to Megatron. “We have a proposal.”  
  
“You couldn't wait to present it?”  
  
“The window on this particular deal is, shall we say, limited,” Swindle said with that smarmy smile he was so well known for. “But I can assure you that it is worth the effort, Lord Megatron. After all, you can't win a war without weapons.”  
  
Megatron gave them both a long look but accepted the datapad, flicking it on and skimming through the contents. The leash dangled from his fingers, tantalizingly loose. If the two Combaticons weren't standing there, Optimus could have yanked it free and ran. Though he doubted the shock collar would have let him get far.  
  
“No, you can't,” Megatron murmured, and his gaze flicked back to Onslaught. “Have there been any further arrivals of Autobot shuttles?”  
  
“All scans report negative. Blast Off assures me he would detect any incoming arrivals long before we see them,” Onslaught replied.  
  
Optimus' frown deepened. He shifted his weight, which had the added consequence of rattling the chains around his wrists and intake. Swindle's gaze shifted Optimus' direction, but Onslaught didn't once pay him attention.  
  
“Good.” Megatron tapped something on the screen and handed the datapad back to Onslaught. “I approve with contingencies. Take Laserbeak when you pick up the delivery.”  
  
Ah, so Megatron still didn't trust them.  
  
“Yes, my lord.” Onslaught's bow looked more than a little forced as he accepted the datapad. “Let's go, Swindle.”  
  
“Pleasure doing business!” Swindle all but chirped and with a salute that would have been considered sloppy, followed after his commander, both of them shifting to their alt-modes and driving away.  
  
Megatron turned his attention back to Optimus, twisting his wrist to tighten the lead and drag Optimus closer to him.  
  
“You know,” he mused, his free hand tracing the seam of Optimus' chestplates. “I'm suddenly feeling the need to be charitable. You want to see your Autobots?”  
  
Optimus worked his intake, fighting back a shudder. “I presume you want some coarse payment for the privilege.”  
  
Megatron chuckled, a dark sound. “Not this time.” One finger flicked a windshield wiper with a clang of it against Optimus' windshield. His smile was all denta. “Let's go back home, shall we?”  
  
“Do I have a choice?”  
  
“Not anymore.” Megatron wrapped his fingers around Optimus' lead. “You can thank me later.”  
  
Not fragging likely.  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and followed after Megatron like a good slave. This was not going to lead to something good. He could feel it in his spark.  
  


-INTERLUDE-

  
  
The Decepticons thought they were safe, snug in their command center, their barracks. They spread out over Cybertron, seeking the remainder of Optimus Prime's Autobots. They thought for sure that their enemy was cowed and beaten.  
  
They had no idea what evil lurked below them.  
  
Jazz crept through tunnel after tunnel. There was a honeycomb of them beneath Iacon. These were deeper, even, than the maintenance and transit tunnels. They harkened to a time before the Golden Age, when the surface of Cybertron was unlivable, even for a metallic lifeform. When the acid rains fell without end, and violent storms raked the landscape and huge, mindless beasts roamed the surface, their thick armor a guard against the acid.  
  
Old stories. Stories no one listened to. That they had all but forgotten.  
  
But Jazz remembered them and now, they were his ally. There were deeper levels, too. Levels he didn't dare traverse. Things slithered and scrabbled down there, things more beast than mech, precursors of the Insecticons. Scraplets and Dwellers and ugh.  
  
Jazz shivered. He was brave, but he wasn't foolish. He wanted to hide from the Decepticons, not become some carnivorous creature's meal.  
  
He couldn't stay here forever. But he could hide just long enough to form a plan. To become Megatron's worst nightmare and show the old Slaghead what fresh Pit he'd unleashed.  
  
Jazz grinned to himself, invisible in the dark of the tunnels. He'd traded his white paint for black. He'd dimmed his visor so that it put out no light. He ran on silent, ultimate Spec Ops protocol.  
  
For all Megatron knew, Jazz was offline. He'd not been spotted since Omega Supreme was sabotaged. Jazz planned to keep it that way.  
  
Optimus wasn't here to tell him to be cautious, to have mercy. The Decepticons no longer deserved it. Jazz was going to do things his way from now on. He'd rather die than become one of Megatron's pets. And if he died, he was going to take as many Decepticons down with him as he could.  
  
He'd free all of the captive Autobots or die trying.  
  
There was no other alternative.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Again.”  
  
_Bang!_  
  
“Again.”  
  
_Bang!_  
  
“Again.”  
  
The blaster clicked, out of charge. Bluestreak slumped, his doorwings flattening against his back, exhaustion echoing through every line, strut and circuit. He'd been at this for hours and his energy levels were beginning to dip again.  
  
The weapon was taken from his hand and another one shoved in its place, this one heavier. He sagged, almost dropping the gun before he caught himself and then cringed, waiting for the strike, the blow.  
  
“Stop it, I'm not going to hit you,” Blast Off said, sounding disgusted. “It's beneath me.”  
  
Bluestreak straightened, looking up at one of his five owners, feeling the weight of the shackles around his limbs and his intake. He would have spoken, but that capacity had been taken from him.  
  
The Combaticon shuttle returned his gaze with a sigh and a hand to his forehelm. “We wouldn't have wasted our credits on a slave just to abuse it. We have plans, Autobot, and if you want to remain functional, you will ensure that you are vital to them. Understood?”  
  
Bluestreak nodded.  
  
“Good.” Blast Off gestured back down the range, toward the targets on the far end. “Then continue.”  
  
Bluestreak nibbled on his bottom lip, his fingers shaking as they wrapped around the grip. He was exhausted.  
  
“This is the last one for today,” Blast Off continued, consulting a list on his datapad. “You may rest afterward.”  
  
Bluestreak's doorwings jittered with relief. He wanted to both rest and refuel. The Combaticons would allow both, once he was done. Of all the Decepticons to be his masters, he supposed he was one of the lucky ones.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
They never screamed. That, to First Aid, was perhaps what was worse to him. They never screamed or yelled or whimpered. They struggled and resisted and fought themselves to exhaustion, but they never screamed, no matter what Shockwave did to them.  
  
First Aid shivered, wrapping his arms tighter around his frame. There wasn't a scratch on him and that, too, was the worst part. He thought that if he could trace the scars and dents and damage, it would hurt less. But the pain was in his spark, untouchable.  
  
Shockwave's experiments were only partially the cause. There was an emptiness inside of him, a desperate longing, places where Hot Spot and Groove and Streetwise and Blades had been. What would they think if they could see him now?  
  
Pedesteps echoed in the hall beyond his cell. First Aid stiffened and slowly raised his helm, peering toward the door and the narrow beam of light coming through the viewing window. A shadow passed in front of it, briefly darkening his cell.  
  
He held his ventilations.  
  
Was it his turn again? Or did Shockwave need him to keep another experiment from offlining and it was too much trouble to summon a Constructicon?  
  
He heard a low beep before his door slid open. First Aid curled into himself as the large frame of his captor filled the opening.  
  
“Come,” Shockwave said, beckoning to him with his lone hand.  
  
Shamefully, First Aid's instinct was to obey. He'd learned the consequences of behaving otherwise. Oh, how he'd learned.  
  
He rose to his pedes, feeling the noose tighten around his spark. Shockwave's single optic was flat, his field devoid of expression. First Aid shuddered.  
  
Back into the breach.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
How many nights had he stood here, staring up into the sky, counting the stars and wondering which one was Cybertron? He didn't call it home, not like the Autobots.  
  
To Grimlock, home was this dirty, organic planet full of small squishy creatures and inconsistent weather and a sun that rose and set to the same rhythm year after year. He'd been created here. He'd been modeled after the past.  
  
Cybertron was not his home.  
  
He hadn't chosen to stay on Earth. That was the hand dealt to him by the Autobots' rather rapid exodus and lack of space.  
  
“We'll come back for you,” Optimus said. He must have meant it, otherwise he wouldn't have left Defensor as well.  
  
The Autobots might not care two creds about what they considered a failed experiment on Wheeljack's part, but they'd come back for their precious Protectobots. Grimlock wasn't bitter. _Much_.  
  
He'd warned Optimus. He'd told him not to listen to the humans, that they were treacherous and besides, wasn't it all a little convenient? Wasn't it strange how suddenly they wanted the Autobots gone when before they'd all been in agreement for a permanent base, for a secret project they thought the Dinobots knew nothing about?  
  
Hah. Dinobots listened because no one knew how to keep their mouth shut. Sludge was the best listener. He brought back all kinds of tasty gossip. Fascinating how a mech that large could blend into the background.  
  
Sludge.  
  
Grimlock's hand closed into a fist.  
  
When it boiled down to it, Megatron was to blame for Sludge's death. He'd ordered the attack on Earth, razing anything organic to make room for his energon refining operations. And it was his Decepticons who surrounded Sludge, outnumbered him, and struck the final blow. It was two triple-changers who dragged off Swoop because he'd had a broken wing and couldn't get away.  
  
It was Menasor and Bruticus, working together for once, who had crushed Defensor between them, ripping the Protectobots apart at the seams. Only one survived. He went the way of Swoop.  
  
Grimlock never saw either of them again.  
  
He looked down at his fist, counting the two Dinobots he had left, with rage burning in his spark.  
  
Megatron was to blame for a lot of things. But, in the depths of Grimlock's core, he blamed Optimus Prime as well.  
  
Damned fool should have listened.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
Unlike the Stunticons, the Constructicons had mastered the art of sharing. Tonight it was to be Long Haul, Ratchet guessed, since he was currently trailing after the much larger Constructicon, his hand firmly encapsulated by Long Haul's.  
  
He cooperated because the alternative was far more painful and humiliating. At least if he didn't resist, he could be allowed to perform work suiting his function. He could see and repair any Autobot that came into the medbay, though he wasn't allowed to audibly speak to them.  
  
Ratchet had seen what became of Beachcomber by the time Ramjet had carelessly dumped the minibot in Constructicon care. Ratchet had felt Beachcomber's spark gutter beneath his hands as he'd struggled to fix what the Conehead had broken. And Ratchet knew, he could have it much, much worse. He wasn't exactly counting his blessings.  
  
It had been Scavenger's turn that night, Ratchet remembered. Because while the Constructicons were content to share a berth on occasion, given their duties, it was rare that they actually did recharge in one happy pile of construction vehicles. Ratchet was a poor substitute for an entire gestalt, but they used him anyway.  
  
That night, he'd been Scavenger's berthmate. Maybe because the Constructions doubled as Decepticon medics, or maybe he was just feeling generous that night. But Scavenger hadn't complained when Ratchet shook and shook, both terrified over Beachcomber's ravaged frame, and grief-stricken over the loss. He'd known, from the moment he laid optics on Beachcomber, that there was nothing he could do.  
  
He'd tried anyway.  
  
Scavenger was, by comparison, the more gentle of the six. Hook was, by far, the cruelest, the pain he caused more incidental than intentional. Old jealousies rising up, Ratchet supposed. Not that it mattered.  
  
Long Haul fell somewhere in the middle and Ratchet had grown to learn what he liked. He climbed onto the berth, planted himself on hands and knees, opened his panel, and waited. He was wet, of course he was wet. Any medic worth his two salts could trigger a manual override for lubrication.  
  
There wasn't any pleasure when Long Haul slid his spike into Ratchet, but there wasn't any pain either. There was just sensation, the thick pressure of a slightly too-large spike in his valve and the sound of Long Haul's rhythmic grunts. He felt the weight of Long Haul's hands on his hips, pulling him back for each thrust. His mind never could wander, the sensation was too present for that, but Long Haul was predictable. Ratchet could almost time the number of thrusts until the Construction grunted and spilled inside of him, three heavy spurts and a light trickle.  
  
He patted Ratchet's hip as he withdrew, signaling Ratchet to close his panel, trapping the transfluid inside. Long Haul liked to grope him in the middle of recharge. He liked to lift Ratchet's leg, prod at his valve and stir a finger in the remnants of his transfluid. Come the early hours before his shift, he'd online and frag Ratchet again before depositing him in the care of whoever was actually on shift in the medcenter.  
  
Ratchet bore it all, not with grace or dignity, but he endured. Even beyond the day they'd dragged Optimus in, beaten and mangled, his valve a torn, bleeding mess. Ratchet's hope hadn't completely died, but it had been a near thing.  
  
They were still alive. Wheeljack was still out there, safe and untouched. If there was any justice or mercy left in the universe, he would remain that way. He wouldn't be dragged to this house of horrors.  
  
Megatron was too obsessed to outright execute Optimus. So their Prime would live for at least a little while yet.  
  
That had to count for something. But what, Ratchet didn't know.  
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interludes will happen every third chapter and present small snippets from all POVs that aren't Optimus. Hopefully, it gives enough of a hint to what's going on in the background so that later events don't come as a complete shock. ^_^
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. I do self-beta so if you notice any mistakes, I won't be angry if you point them out to me. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1/IDW AU  
> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Coneheads/Hound, Starscream, Red Alert, Thundercracker, Wildrider, Runabout, Runamuck, Soundwave  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: rape/noncon, unwilling voyeurism and exhibitionism, forced overload, reprogramming/mind alteration, physical abuse  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Mad World," Gary Jules

Megatron's first step upon returning to his luxury suite was to drag Optimus into the washracks. There he attached Optimus to rings welded into the wall, and sprayed Optimus down like one might a pet caught rolling around in the mire. Dust sluiced from Optimus' frame, along with the lingering remnants of dried transfluid.   
  
Megatron left him to drip dry as he attended to his own ablutions, scrubbing at his armor with an actual brush and cleanser. There was an almost jovial bounce to the warlord's movements and Optimus dreaded to think what torture Megatron had planned that put him in such a fine mood.   
  
“Did you enjoy your first tour of my city, Prime?” Megatron asked over the rhythmic fall of the cleanser.  
  
“Enjoy is a strong word.”   
  
Megatron chuckled and flexed his armor beneath the spray, letting the cleanser seep into every nook and cranny. His field spoke of enjoyment, of glee, and that only increased Optimus' dread.   
  
“Jealous, Prime?”   
  
“Of you?”   
  
“That I am rebuilding Cybertron beyond your expectations of me.”   
  
Optimus stared hard at the wall, unwilling to let Megatron see his expression. Jealous wasn't quite the term he'd use. Frustration was a lot closer to it. Megatron was rebuilding, yes, but more to prepare himself for Decepticon expansion, not in an effort to fix what was broken.   
  
“You're not the saint you present yourself to be,” Optimus said, but it lacked the sharpness he had intended.   
  
Cybertron was still home. He still ached to be here. It did gall that the Decepticons were the ones being allowed to live here and work toward rebuilding. Optimus felt petty for wishing it had been done by Autobot hands instead.   
  
He was supposed to dream of a united Cybertron, not divided. He still thought the Autobots deserved it more. Certainly he would not have turned the Decepticons into pets or slaves.   
  
Megatron swiped a drying cloth over his frame, his armor gleaming in the dim light of the washracks. “I have earned my rewards.”   
  
Optimus chuffed a ventilation. He chose not to respond to that.   
  
Megatron tossed the used cloths into a receptacle and gave Optimus an appraising look. “You won't be winning any pageants,” he said. “But you'll do.”   
  
“So happy to please you, master,” Optimus said, his tone thick with insincerity.   
  
“Master, hmm? I like the sound of that.” Megatron unlatched him from the wall and cuffed his hands behind his back, though the lead was removed from his collar.   
  
Optimus's face twisted with contempt. “You would.”   
  
Megatron rumbled a laugh, still in his fine mood.   
  
“I think we're due some entertainment, don't you?” Megatron asked as he pulled Optimus into an adjoining room.   
  
This one was smaller than the others, perhaps a private meeting room, and it was lightly furnished. There was a huge vidscreen mounted on the wall with several chairs arranged in front of it. A bar across the back held empty shelves where it might have once had containers upon containers of high grade.   
  
Megatron sat in the largest chair in front of the view screen and pulled Optimus onto his lap, rearranging Optimus' limbs as he suited. He was tilted back against Megatron's chest, his legs splayed over Megatron's thighs and his arms pinned behind him. His shoulder joints ached, a dull throb that would graduate to numbness eventually.   
  
Megatron rested a hand on Optimus' interface array as his other hand fumbled with something. Optimus tried to turn and look, but the angle was too awkward and all it did was cause Megatron to press more firmly on his array.   
  
“What are you doing?”   
  
“Providing entertainment,” Megatron said, again with that self-satisfaction that did not bode well.   
  
The vid-screen clicked on and the roar of a crowd drew Optimus' attention at once. Were they about to watch Megatron's speech again? He'd heard it once already and that was enough for Optimus.   
  
But no. The cameras weren't trained on a stage but something that looked like one of the gladiating pits out of Kaon. This was smaller, newly constructed, but the stands were filled with an eager crowd. There was a mech standing in the center and as the camera zoomed in, Optimus stiffened.   
  
It was Hound.   
  
He'd been repaired since Optimus saw him earlier in the orn. Both optics were now functional and the larger dents had been pounded out. Someone had gone through the effort of giving him a spray down and a functional wax, as though prettying him up for the crowd. He, too, sported a collar and shackles like Optimus and Ratchet and no doubt his weapons had been removed. He wondered if Hound's T-cog had also been disabled or if that was an action reserved for Optimus alone.   
  
Ratchet, after all, couldn't function as a medic if his were removed. There was external hardware for sure, like what Wheeljack relied on, but in an emergency, the internal equipment was best suited.   
  
Hound stood, chains dripping from his wrists and attached to a ring on the floor. He looked around the arena, his optics wide and bright.   
  
“What's going on?” Optimus demanded. “You said you weren't going to kill him!”   
  
Megatron set the remote aside and shifted to get comfortable. He propped one pede on the seat of another chair and tilted Optimus further back against him. His hand joined the other and now both stroked lightly over Optimus' array. The feather-light touch was nice, gentle, and Optimus' array responded accordingly.   
  
“He's not there to be executed,” Megatron said, his vocals a dark purr in Optimus' audial. “Just watch, Prime.” The glee in his field pulsed against Optimus, infecting his own field.   
  
He struggled in Megatron's lap, anger rising within him. “What sick, twisted game are you playing now?”  
  
“No game, Prime. Never just a game.” Megatron's fingers pressed a bit harder on Optimus' seams, his frame thrumming against Optimus'. “Better pay attention or you might miss something.”   
  
On screen, to Optimus' horror, there was a roar of jet engines as the three Coneheads circled the air above Hound. He looked up at them, recognition dawning, and as the crowd cheered, the Decepticons transformed and landed, surrounding Hound. Some invisible command disengaged Hound's chain from the ring, not that there was anywhere to escape.   
  
Nevertheless, Hound shifted into a defensive stance, his hands curling into fists. A bell rang, loud and clear, and Ramjet was the first to launch forward, throwing himself at Hound. All three Seekers towered over the green scout, and it was all Hound could to scuttle out of Ramjet's initial attack.   
  
That put him directly in line for Thrust, however, who snagged one of Hound's swinging chains and yanked the scout toward him. Hound stumbled and took a wild swing, managing to connect with Thrust's face. The crowd laughed as Thrust howled and shoved Hound to the ground, poking at a cracked cheek plate.   
  
“How is this not execution?” Optimus demanded.   
  
Megatron nipped at his audial, scraping the paint from it. “Because the purpose isn't to kill him.” His fingers circled Optimus' array over and over again. “Now open.”   
  
So Megatron wanted to frag him while he watched the Decepticon equivalent of porn? Optimus should have guessed. He clenched his denta and obeyed. At least if he kept his panel, he could have some semblance of privacy.   
  
“Both of them,” Megatron corrected, two fingers making a quick dip into Optimus' valve, though there was no lubrication to be found.   
  
Optimus startled. His spike, too? He hesitated. What if Megatron meant to tear it from his frame?   
  
On screen, Hound attempted to stave off his assailants, but he was outnumbered, outclassed, and unarmed. They were merely toying with him, shoving him between one another, and yanking on the chains. His frame collected a variety of dents and scrapes, until the haphazard wax job was lost to the damage.   
  
“Open,” Megatron repeated, his fingers hooking in the rim of Optimus' valve in a distinctly unpleasant pressure.   
  
Optimus' innards ground as though sand had gotten amid the gears. He trembled before he could stop himself, gruesome images of the sensitive equipment being torn from its casing and the immediate pain that would follow.   
  
Megatron's fingers pressed at the edge of the panel, fingers trying to push between the seams and Optimus knew that if he didn't obey, Megatron would tear it off anyway. And it wouldn't stop Megatron from hurting him.   
  
He bit back a helpless noise and allowed the panel to open, only the tip of his spike peeking from the sheath. He was far from aroused and it showed.   
  
Megatron made a grunt of approval, his fingers circling the tip of Optimus' spike as though trying to coax it free. His other hand left Optimus valve, but only to press two fingers to Optimus' mouth, tapping his lips. He revved his engine, the vibrations traveling through Optimus, straight to his core, and the unexpected sensation made him gasp, his frame arching.   
  
Megatron took advantage, pushing his fingers into Optimus' mouth, the pads of them massaging Optimus' glossa. Optimus made an inarticulate noise, but didn't bite. Nor did he participate. He sat there, passive, as Megatron thrust his fingers in and out of Optimus' mouth, gathering up oral lubricants and stroking his glossa. Meanwhile, his other hand wreaked merry havoc on Optimus' spike, pinching and stroking the tip until it grudgingly emerged from the protection of its sheath.   
  
The warlord hummed beneath him, frame growing hotter and hotter, his panel a searing presence against Optimus' aft. Yet, he still made no attempt to pressurize his spike and take Optimus as he'd been so willing to do yesterday.   
  
Instead, he removed his fingers from Optimus' mouth, now wet with oral lubricant, and returned them to Optimus' valve. They circled the rim of his valve, flirting over the anterior node and sending a shock of pleasure through Optimus' array. He jerked, vents whooshing a startled puff.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I can also be kind,” he purred, fingers encircling Optimus' spike and giving it several light strokes. It pressurized fully in his grip. Optimus' housing buzzed with a growing warmth.   
  
Optimus groaned and cycled a ventilation. “That does not make it any less unwanted.”   
  
“I am aware. Watch the show, Prime. You wouldn't want to miss it.”   
  
Megatron's finger paid due attention to Optimus' node, flicking over it again and again. Optimus' hips jerked, his valve twitching at the unexpected bursts of pleasure. And still Megatron made no attempt to take him.   
  
On screen, a much battered Hound gave it his best. Perhaps they told him he could be free if he participated. Perhaps the threat of the shock collar had left its mark. Optimus didn't know. It made him angry, his engine revving weakly, submitting to the damn throttler.   
  
One of Megatron's fingers plunged into Optimus' valve as Hound was backhanded to the ground. He hit with a spin, scraping across the floor. He struggled to push himself upright, arms wobbling, shaking his helm.   
  
Thrust kicked him in the side, denting metal inward, likely cracking a fuel cell. Hound tried to skitter away, on knees and one hand, his other cradling his midsection, energon leaking from between his fingers.   
  
“They'll kill him,” Optimus insisted.   
  
“Not when he's more fun to keep alive,” Megatron said, adding a second finger, two of them curling and poking into Optimus' valve, swirling around the bare lubrication. “And not when they know the consequences of disobeying my orders.” He pinched the tip of Optimus' spike and Optimus jerked.   
  
Hound scrambled away from Ramjet's swipe, but he couldn't avoid Dirge's lunge. The dark blue Seeker tackled Hound to the floor, the cheers of the crowd making the speakers rattle from their volume.   
  
“The real fun begins now,” Megatron said with a rumbling purr, his fingers curving and stroking deep set nodes.   
  
Optimus tried to twist away from the unwanted pleasure, but couldn't get any leverage. Megatron had stripped it all from him.   
  
“It's torture!” Optimus snapped.   
  
“It's payment. They have won, therefore they claim their prize,” Megatron murmured.   
  
The Coneheads bore a thrashing, struggling Hound to the ground. Ramjet pawed at Hound's array and ripped away his covers when Hound didn't retract them fast enough. Thrust aimed himself at Hound's mouth. Dirge's fingers pried his jaw apart and held him open for Thrust's entry.   
  
A glossy, banded spike plunged into Hound's mouth as Ramjet hunched over him from behind, spike forcing its way into Hound's valve.   
  
The crowd cheered. The camera circled around them, covering all angles. Thrust gripped Hound's helm, forcing himself deeper and deeper with each thrust. Dirge stood back, stroking his spike, waiting his turn. Ramjet hiked Hound higher, giving himself a better angle for a deeper thrust.   
  
This was what Megatron called entertainment.   
  
Optimus felt sick to his spark. He wanted to turn his helm away and offline his optics. His tanks clenched. Despite at all, the pleasure that wracked his frame was undeniable.   
  
Megatron's fingers were relentless. He plunged into Optimus' valve, three fingers now, stroking and rubbing the buried sensors. His grip on Optimus' spike was practiced and perfect, a twist on the upstroke and a squeeze on the downstroke. Optimus was all but writhing in Megatron's arms, his vents stuttered, his frame filled with heat.   
  
A needy sound broke from his vocalizer. Optimus arched in Megatron's arms, his calipers cycling down on Megatron's fingers, both too much and not enough. His anterior node throbbed and the occasional sweep of Megatron's thumb did not sate it. His thighs quivered.   
  
He told himself, over and over, _No_. He would not overload at Megatron's hand. He would not let the pleasure overwhelm him. He would not spill to the sight of his Autobot being violated for a roaring crowd.   
  
Megatron's engine ticked into a higher gear. The vibrations rattled against Optimus' frame, setting his circuits alight. Charge crackled under his armor. His spark throbbed.   
  
On screen, Thrust howled his overload, splattering all over Hound's face. Transfluid dripped to the ground as Thrust staggered back, his spike still half-pressurized. He said something that the camera didn't pick up and Ramjet grinned. He stopped thrusting, bent over, hooked his arms under Hound's knees, and lifted.   
  
Hound thrashed about, but Ramjet's grip only tightened, denting the metal of his thigh armor. He remained buried in Hound's valve, hips moving in minute jerks that barely shifted him around. The camera angle changed as Dirge stepped in for a turn, one finger stroking the rim of Hound's valve stretched around Ramjet's spike. He slipped said finger in beside him, Hound's optics widening with fear.   
  
“Keep watching,” Megatron said, his voice almost distant to Optimus who now, couldn't tear his optics away, if only from the horror of it.   
  
Megatron's prior accusation seemed to ring in his audials.   
  
_Look at what it brought you. How many of your Autobots are dead, Optimus? How many have you failed?_  
  
This was his fault.   
  
Megatron shifted. His fingers plunged deeper into Optimus' valve, relentlessly stroking the ring of sensors within Optimus' valve. He stroked and pinched the tip of Optimus spike, playing around with the thin beads of pre-transfluid.   
  
“I want you to overload,” Megatron rumbled, his hips rocking against Optimus' aft, the searing heat of his closed panels almost burning. “Scream out your pleasure while watching your Autobot receive his punishment.”   
  
Optimus' hands clenched into fists. “You disgust me.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “Then why are you leaking all over my lap?” His fingers shoved into Optimus' valve, lubricants dripping down his wrist and onto the floor between their spread legs. “Why does your frame tremble with need?”   
  
Optimus treated them as rhetorical questions. He tried to still his movements, ignore the indicators of a rising overload. He watched Hound be taken by two mechs at once, energon and fluids mingled as they dribbled down his thighs. Optimus clung to his horror, to the rolling upset in his tank, and hoped it would forestall if not erase his arousal.   
  
They did neither. Instead, the two blended together inside of him, until his tanks churned and his ventilations stuttered and his valve rippled and error messages cropped up inside his processor.   
  
Optimus sobbed, not caring how he sounded, or that it was all an admission that Megatron's twisted torture was working. Megatron's satisfaction pulsed at him, to the same tune as his lust, and Optimus' anterior node throbbed. His hips jerked and rolled into Megatron's touch without his consent. His frame had other ideas, only seeking an overload without everything else attached.   
  
On screen, Ramjet and Dirge finished, filling Hound's valve with transfluid. They withdrew at the same time, though Dirge stepped back, giving the camera a perfect view of Hound's gaping valve, the rim twitching weakly as transfluid dripped from within him. He sagged in Ramjet's grip, face twisted with pain, vents wheezing.   
  
Thrust returned, jamming his fingers into Hound's valve, swirling them about until the mixture of energon, lubricant, and transfluid soaked the digits. He withdrew them, dripping, and raised them to Hound's mouth, shoving them inside without any fanfare.   
  
Megatron rumbled his approval.   
  
The crowd roared.   
  
The sweep of Megatron's thumb over his throbbing node sent Optimus tumbling into overload, the pleasure tearing through him with the crackle of searing heat, burning out several circuits. His frame thrashed, his interface array ached, and he spilled all over Megatron's fingers, spurting transfluid to the floor.   
  
Shame gripped his spark and Optimus felt the purge rising. He swallowed it down, for there was nowhere for it to go but down his chestplate.   
  
Beneath him, Megatron's panel snapped open and his spike sprang free, gliding along Optimus' aft. Two hands gripped his thighs, mechhandling him until Megatron could shift his hips and plunge into Optimus' spasming valve with a shout of his own pleasure. Both pedes hit the floor, giving him the leverage to pound into Optimus, his frame roaring heat from holding himself back.   
  
Optimus whined, his vents hiccuping, the sharp smack of Megatron's hips against his aft an unpleasant sensation atop all others. His frame trembled with the aftershocks of his overload, exhaustion setting into the tune of his dwindling fuel levels.   
  
It took only a handful of thrusts before he felt Megatron spurt inside of him, pulses of transfluid joining the lubricant in his valve. The warlord overloaded with a growl of satisfaction, clamping down on Optimus' shoulder with his denta, a sharp stab of pain that barely registered on the scale.   
  
His vents blasting heat, Megatron stilled inside Optimus, keeping them joined at the array. His glossa traced the bite marks he left on Optimus' shoulder, his engine rumbling with approval. His hands flexed on Optimus' thighs as he shifted to get more comfortable, lowering Optimus into a better position on his lap. Optimus' calipers weakly twitched around the depressurizing spike. He felt the fluids leaking out from around it, dripping onto Megatron beneath him.   
  
On screen, Hound had been abandoned in a dirty, transfluid-covered heap. His optics were dim as he curled into himself. His rapists celebrated in front of a cheering crowd. Optimus didn't recognize the red grounder that came roaring into the arena, but he was trailed by a larger blue one. They gathered up the ravaged Autobot, the red one looking him over with a frown.   
  
And then the monitor clicked off.   
  
Megatron patted a possessive hand over Optimus' array and slipped out of his valve. “Close,” he ordered.   
  
Optimus obeyed. What was the point otherwise? He shifted and felt the trickle of his lubricant and Megatron's transfluid within him. His sensors pinged irritation at him, sluggishly attempting to stir.   
  
“More than adequate this time, Prime,” Megatron said, both hands now stroking Optimus' panels, swirling in the splatter of fluids that stained his array. “You've learned your place.”   
  
Optimus' engine whined disagreement. He couldn't seem to get his vocalizer to initialize. He sagged against Megatron, aching to the very core of his spark.   
  
What was he thinking? He couldn't protect his Autobots. He couldn't even protect himself.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Optimus was dragged from recharge next cycle with all the subtlety of a freight train. He was off-balance, both physically and mentally, and could do little more than stumble after Megatron as the warlord dragged them from his quarters. He hadn't even taken the time to fully bind Optimus, only attaching the lead to his collar but leaving his arms to move freely.   
  
Then again, all it would take was a swift command and Optimus would drop to his knees in electric agony, so maybe the chains were redundant.   
  
“As much as I've enjoyed our time together, Prime, I do have a job to do,” Megatron tossed over his shoulder with a fanged smirk.  
  
“More warmongering?” Optimus asked bitterly.   
  
Megatron snorted a ventilation, but did not answer. They left the Prime's residence and entered a nearby building that the hustle and bustle instantly identified as Megatron's command center. More than a few Decepticons leered as they passed and one large triple-changer – judging by the presence of both wings and treads – slapped Optimus' aft. Megatron laughed while Optimus scuttled nearer to the warlord, his aft stinging.   
  
The command center occupied the top floor of a re-purposed building and when they arrived, all of the Decepticons turned to goggle. A collection of Decepticons manned the stations on the lowest levels, but commander on deck at the moment was Starscream. He smirked as he saw Megatron, striding toward with a cocky cant to his hips.   
  
“You grace us with your presence at last, Leader,” he said. “Or is your pet proving too much of a distraction?”  
  
“Sector thirteen, clear.”   
  
Optimus stiffened. He knew those vocals, if not the tone at least the timbre. He ignored Megatron and Starscream posturing at each other and turned to find the source. His optics widened as he noticed a console to the side of the door, one he wouldn't have seen when they first came in.   
  
Red Alert. He'd thought their security director offline. But here he was, every available cable connected to a massive console, his gaze affixed on no less than a dozen monitors. Each of them flicked through scenes in intervals, half depicting Iacon, the other half depicting surveillance of Cybertron.   
  
Optimus took a step toward him without thinking, his spark clenching. Red Alert had not looked up at their entrance. He scarcely moved. Four primary cables connected him to the console. His hands rested upon a keyboard, fingers in constant motion. The flicker of his optics reflected on the monitor screen.   
  
“Sector fourteen clear,” he said, vocals a monotone devoid of inflection.   
  
What had they done to him?  
  
The chain brought him up short and Optimus stopped in place, his hands drawing into slow fists. He reached out, as best he could, with his field, but no matter how much he reached for Red Alert he received no response. No recognition. No relief. It was as though he were reaching for a drone.   
  
“Of all the Autobots, he was the most useful asset,” Megatron said, Optimus' only warning before the warlord pressed against him from behind, one hand giving a pointed tug to Optimus' lead. “Amazing what a little behavioral coding can do. Especially for a mech who was built to sustain it.”   
  
Optimus shook.   
  
This would have been Prowl's fate, he thought, if Prowl had survived and ended up in Decepticon custody. Mechs programmed to be civil servants, to have loyalty coding, were more susceptible to behavioral coding. It was a distant ancestor to slave coding, a leftover remnant from Quintesson rule ages and ages ago.   
  
Megatron used a modified version of it for the Combaticons, Optimus knew. Jazz had brought him that intel, back when Optimus had proposed enlisting Onslaught's aid in overthrowing Megatron, since it was clear he held little love for the Decepticon warlord.   
  
_There's no point now_ , Jazz had said with a shrug. _Their sparks will burn out before they can do anything against Megatron._  
  
That idea had gone by the wayside. Optimus should not have been so shocked to learn Megatron would use such methods. He had, after all, used the Robosmasher as a recruitment technique. Its effects were just as permanent. Mechs like the Constructions and the Combaticons would never be free, not so long as Megatron lived.   
  
“You've made him into a drone,” Optimus growled.   
  
“A useful one at that,” Megatron agreed, without so much as an argument otherwise. “His assistance has resulted in the capture of at least three Autobots.”   
  
“Sector fifteen, clear.”   
  
Optimus twisted away from Megatron, as far as the chain would allow him, affixing the warlord with his most virulent glare. “How can you do that to another living being?” he demanded.   
  
Megatron, however, only gave him a mild look in return. “Because that's the price he had to pay.” He tugged on Optimus' lead, forcing him back close until his vents blasted over Optimus, churning his tanks. “Can you imagine a worse punishment?”   
  
Optimus' optics narrowed as he tilted his helm back, pulling on the chain. “A few come to mind.”   
  
His captor laughed and turned his back on Optimus, heading toward what Optimus could only call a throne. It sat central to all the consoles in the command center, on a slightly raised platform. It was unoccupied at the moment and Optimus had no doubt that the only Decepticon who used it was Megatron, perhaps Starscream if he felt daring.   
  
Megatron sat upon his throne with a great weight about him.   
  
_You poor, spark-heavy monster,_ Optimus thought with a sneer. _It must be hard to have a lump of coal for a spark._  
  
An offhand tug to the lead had Optimus stumble forward, climbing the dais until he stood at Megatron's left hand. “Sit.”   
  
Optimus lowered himself to the floor. The alternative was to either stand all day or worse, find himself in Megatron's lap. This put his helm level with the arm of Megatron's throne, and Megatron took advantage of that, his fingers brushing one of Optimus' antennae.   
  
He cringed and tilted his helm away from Megatron's fingers. “Don't touch me,” he said. Cooperation, he decided, was no longer an acceptable option. Not after what Megatron had done to Hound and Red Alert.   
  
Optimus would die first.   
  
Megatron backhanded him, as casual as you please, and Optimus grunted at the impact, his facial plate aching. His visual feed forced itself into a reset as Optimus struggled to keep upright, not that the collar allowed him to go far.   
  
“I'm disappointed, Prime,” Megatron said with a click of his glossa. “We were making such progress.”   
  
Optimus frowned and poked at his lip plate, tasting the well of energon. It was a light cut, one his self-repair was already working toward. But to be smacked like an errant child? It was a humiliation to add to all the others.   
  
“No,” he said with a firm glare Megatron's direction. “We were not.”   
  
Megatron chuckled and reached for his helm. He snatched an antenna and pulling it closer. Optimus relented, if only to ease the pain. Those were sensitive!  
  
“Of course we were,” he murmured, thumb stroking a long path up Optimus' antennae. “But in case it doesn't work, I have some coding that will. As soon as Shockwave figures out how to get past that thing attached to your spark.”   
  
Optimus' optics cycled wide. Had Megatron already tried to upload that behavioral coding in him? It would had to have been while he was offline in the medbay. Was the matrix the only thing protecting him from it?   
  
He tilted his gaze away, shifting his focus inward, trying to take a look at his coding. All systems reported unaltered for something as insidious as that code, he didn't doubt it could hide behind anything innocuous.   
  
“For now, however, I like you better with a little fight,” Megatron continued and he leaned over the arm of the throne, the edge of his denta nipping at the tip of Optimus' antennae. “It makes every victory that much sweeter.” His vocals vibrated along the sensitive metal.   
  
Optimus shivered. He hoped it was only from disgust.   
  
Mercifully, Megatron withdrew, leaving Optimus alone. Optimus scooted as far from Megatron's reach as was physically possible. Not that Megatron noticed or cared. He tapped his fingers over the console on his throne, pulling up a holographic screen.   
  
“Thundercracker,” he barked, “status report.”   
  
The aforementioned Seeker had just entered the command center and his wings hiked as though startled. He looked like a Terran deer in headlights. He cycled his optics and then dipped his helm.   
  
“Yes, Leader,” he said, and approached the throne, his optics only briefly flickering to Optimus before he produced a datapad from subspace.   
  
Once Optimus realized they weren't talking about Autobots or anything of interest, he shifted his own attention back to his coding. His scans were still coming up negative, but he would wait for it to finish before drawing his conclusions. There was a flag, evidence someone had copied his core coding onto an external drive.   
  
Optimus' spark fluttered.   
  
There were many unpleasant things Shockwave could do with that information.   
  
He drew his legs up, bracing his arms across them, an unconscious desire to protect his core. His spark strobed an unhappy beat.   
  
If Shockwave found a means to alter his core coding, there would be no turning back. He would be like Red Alert, a drone for Megatron's use. Was Red even alive in there? Were his thoughts trapped by the coding? Did he scream to be free from his torment?   
  
He still had his spark. Did it thrash and cry in his casing? Did it beg for freedom?  
  
Death would have been kinder.   
  
The plating on Optimus' back shuffled. He flinched and looked up, scanning around him. Thundercracker had gone, Megatron was working on something on his screen, and... a Decepticon was staring at Optimus. Three of them, to be more accurate, only one of whom he recognized – the Stunticon Wildrider.   
  
Wildrider was the one who dared get closer, near enough to touch, but he didn't. His frame twitched as though it was difficult to hold himself back.   
  
Optimus tilted closer to Megatron's throne. There was something unsettling in the way Wildrider stared at him.   
  
A hand landed on his helm. Megatron's, by the weight of it, a thumb stroking the length of his undamaged audial.   
  
One of the Decepticons with dark gray and red plating lit up his visor. “When are you going to share him, my lord?” he asked, his tone both respectful and hungry.   
  
Optimus stiffened. Megatron's hand continued to pet his helm, whether an attempt to be soothing or possessive, Optimus couldn't say. The motion was off hand as he hadn't looked up from his work.   
  
“That depends on his behavior, Runabout,” Megatron said mildly. “And whether my soldiers have earned that privilege.”   
  
The other mech pressed forward, his vents blasting a wave of heat. “Is it true? That if we find an Autobot, we can keep it?” His white plating was scraped and dented, as though he didn't bother to take care of himself.   
  
“So long as the Autobot is not otherwise useful,” Megatron said, still offhand, his fingers now stroking Optimus' face, his thumb teasing at the seam of Optimus' lips. “There are other caveats, but yes. Provided they are of no interest to me, Autobots are awarded to their captors.”   
  
Optimus cringed.   
  
Runabout and his companion exchanged glances, all but dancing in place with excitement. Wildrider actually did shout, pumping his fist into the air with a noisy exclamation.   
  
“We gotta catch another one then!” Wildrider said and elbowed the white Decepticon. “Me and my brothers caught the medic, you know.”   
  
“Yeah, but you didn't get to keep him,” Runabout said.   
  
“Just means we'll keep the next one,” Wildrider retorted, affronted.   
  
Megatron's engine gave a warning growl. “If you three don't return to work, none of you will receive a reward.”   
  
“Sir!”   
  
Three Decepticons scattered. Optimus' tank churned. Megatron's thumb on his lips was a tempting target. He gave more than one thought to letting it slide into his mouth and then biting it off.   
  
How severe would his punishment be?   
  
“I know what you're thinking,” Megatron said.   
  
Optimus looked up at the warlord, surprised that Megatron was actually paying him attention. Those red optics darkened at him.   
  
“And that would be a petty revenge, Prime.”   
  
He curled his lip, tilting his helm away from Megatron, not that it got him far. “You deserve far worse.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “How many times have you had the opportunity to offline me, Prime? How many times have you hesitated? Have you let me walk away unhindered?” His thumb pushed harder at Optimus' bottom lip and then into his mouth, stroking his glossa. “You don't have the spark for death.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrowed. His hands clenched around his knees. “For you, I'd revise my vows.” The words were muffled around Megatron's fingers.  
  
Megatron had the gall to throw his helm back and laugh, drawing attention their way. “You would kill me, Prime? I'm tempted to loose those chains just to see you try.”   
  
His faceplate burned. Other Decepticons were snickering. More than a few stared at them, though they were careful to return to work at a casual glance from their master.   
  
Optimus bristled.   
  
The pain would be worth it. His optics flashed and he clamped his mouth done, denta clamping around Megatron's thumb. He felt dermal metal give way beneath him, felt the warm splash of energon.   
  
For a moment, he felt satisfaction.   
  
Megatron roared, a sound of outrage more than pain, and he struck Optimus across the face, far worse than he had earlier. Megatron's injured digit popped from his mouth as Optimus' visual feed went black. He rocked back from the force of the blow, nearly tumbling from the dais, but Megatron's hand caught at the lead, jerking him back by the collar.   
  
“That was unwise,” Megatron snarled. Searing vents puffed against Optimus' face.   
  
Optimus' optics rebooted. He stared back at Megatron and purposefully flicked his glossa, cleaning up the few drops of energon Megatron's thumb had left behind.   
  
“I am not your toy,” Optimus growled. “And neither are my Autobots.”   
  
Megatron dripped onto the lead, though the injury truly was minor. For Cybertronians who had been at war for millennia, it didn't even register on a scale of pain. But pain wasn't the point.   
  
“You are whatever I say you are and you will pay for that, Prime.”   
  
Optimus didn't so much as tremble. “What worse punishment do you think you can give me?”   
  
“You think you've seen my worst?” Megatron arched an orbital ridge, his lips pulled back over his bared denta, truly making him seem a beast. “I haven't even begun.”   
  
He twisted his wrist, coiling the length of the lead around it. This dragged Optimus uncomfortably close to the throne, near enough that his chin almost rested on the arm of it. He couldn't look down, couldn't ease the strain on his neck cabling. It twitched and shuffled, more annoyance than pain.   
  
Megatron said nothing else. He simply went back to work, leaving the air between them thick with tension. Optimus expected more. He expected for Megatron to throw him to the ground and lay into him, beat him as the Coneheads had done to Hound before taking him.   
  
This calm acceptance left him uneasy. Though calm was perhaps the wrong word. Megatron's armor had slicked down, his lips forming a frown. His fingers tapped over his console with more force than necessary. He ignored Optimus, except to occasionally give a mild tug to the leash.   
  
Optimus sighed, rested his chin on the arm of the throne, and tried to get comfortable.   
  
“Lord Megatron.”   
  
Optimus looked up at the familiar vocals. It was hard to miss that passionless monotone of Soundwave's. He stood in front of Megatron, a datapad in hand, and were he anyone else, Optimus would say he was fidgeting. But there was a dimness to Soundwave's visor and a certain way he held his armor in that suggested he bore bad news. And what mech liked to bring Megatron bad news?   
  
“Yes, Soundwave, what is it?” Megatron asked, sounding bored. He didn't bother to look up from whatever he was doing on his screen.   
  
“Report received.” Soundwave's visor dimmed further. “Protihex Depot claims a forty percent loss.”   
  
Megatron stilled. “Loss?” Now he looked up, something in his face thunderous. His field spiked.   
  
“Autobot perpetrators.” The light behind Soundwave's visor shifted to Optimus, making him squirm. “Raid involved loss of energon, medical supplies, and weapons.”   
  
“Weapons!” Megatron shot to his pedes, his holographic shattering at the wave of his hand. Optimus tumbled forward, jerked by the collar, and scrambled on hands and knees to keep from breaking something. Megatron didn't seem to notice him. “Who did it?”   
  
The entire command center went silent. Never had Optimus seen Decepticons stare so diligently at their monitors. The only one who dared speak was Red Alert, his dull drone a mere background noise that no one took heed of.   
  
“Identity unknown.” Soundwave's armor clamped even tighter to his substructure, if at all possible.  
  
His cassettes, Optimus noticed, were absent. He could have had them docked but his compartment looked empty.   
  
“Cassettes reviewing surveillance,” Soundwave continued, as brave as any mech in the face of Megatron's growing ire. “Sabotage, however, suspected.”  
  
Megatron's engine rumbled. There was a low, deep whine, his fusion cannon shifting into online mode. His optics brightened with rage.   
  
“You are telling me,” he said in a low tone that boded well for no one. He started down the dais, dragging Optimus along with him. “That I have the Autobots outnumbered on Cybertron a hundred to one. I have the best security any mech could ask for. And still somehow one of my supply depots was raided and you cannot identify the criminal who would dare do so?” By the end, his vocals had reached a peak, a roar of fury that echoed around the command center.   
  
Soundwave, to his credit, did not quail.   
  
“Affirmative, Lord Megatron.”   
  
The warlord's armor shuffled, lifting and settling as though he was drawing on his offensive subroutines. “You have failed me, Soundwave.”   
  
The communications officer dipped his helm and there was a wobble in one of his legs. Optimus would not have seen it if he hadn't been looking for it.  
  
“I apologize. New security measures employed. Breach will not happen again.”   
  
“That's a start. But it's not good enough.” Megatron hissed, his hand clenching into a fist. “I want to know who did it and I want to know now.”   
  
Soundwave relaxed by increments, perhaps because Megatron had yet to throw a punch. Optimus had seen him strike Starscream for less. Apparently, he was more lenient toward Soundwave.   
  
This time.   
  
“Investigation underway. Forming list of potential Autobot culprits.”  
  
Megatron's engine rattled and he paused, helm turning slowly toward Optimus. His optics burned like smoldering coals.   
  
“Keep looking,” he said, and he jerked on Optimus' lead, yanking Optimus toward him. He tumbled forward, bumping against Megatron's leg, struggling to situate himself. “But I may not need it.” He pulled on the lead, dragging Optimus to his pedes, their faceplates in proximity. “I have all the intelligence I need in your processor, don't I, Prime?”   
  
Optimus stiffened, suddenly glad that he had no idea of the status of his Autobots. “I don't know anything,” he said. “And even if I did, I wouldn't help you.”   
  
“Then I'll have to convince you otherwise,” Megatron said. “Call Cyclonus to take command,” he continued, speaking to Soundwave though his optics remained locked on Optimus. “And summon Vortex and Barricade.”   
  
“Vortex off planet.”   
  
Megatron huffed a ventilation and loosened his hold on Optimus, shifting his attention to his communications specialist. “Yes, that's right. A pity.” His lips formed a frown. “Barricade then. And Shockwave. You can remain on standby just in case.” He lifted his hand, his knuckles brushing the underside of Optimus' jaw. “I want answers. Whatever it takes.”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. Maybe the bite had not been worth it after all.   
  


****


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron, Optimus, Barricade, Shockwave, Soundwave  
> Warnings this chapter: Interrogation, Torture, Bondage, Energon Rod, Forced pleasure, genital harm, acid torture, mental invasion, physical abuse  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Forsaken," Disturbed

To Optimus' surprise, Megatron actually had a prison. He'd repurposed the lowest level of the command building into a brig. Half a dozen cells were enclosed with energy bars, but thankfully, all of them were empty. No doubt their residents had all been either executed or distributed as prizes to Decepticon soldiers.   
  
Optimus' tank churned.   
  
Apart from the cells, however, Megatron also had what he grandly referred to as an interrogation room. It was, to Optimus, what the humans would have called a horror house. Not because it was luridly splashed with energon and bits and pieces of random mechs, but because it was clean and tidy. Instruments of torture, half of which Optimus couldn't even recognize, hung from the walls, some gleaming, others worn with use but still functional.   
  
The platform in the middle of the room was liberally draped with chains and manacles, complete with a control box that no doubt allowed it to be lifted or lowered or tilted. Chains also dangled from the ceiling and it was to these that Megatron dragged Optimus. With Barricade and Shockwave behind him, there was little point in digging in his heels. He would be taken to those chains regardless.   
  
“You think pain is enough to motivate him?” Barricade asked as Megatron chained Optimus by his wrists, high above his helm.   
  
Brackets in the floor pinned Optimus' pedes in place, his legs braced apart, and his thigh cables protesting the strain. It was just far enough to be uncomfortable, an irritation that would blossom into pain later, he was sure. Though it would probably fade to the background once they started using those... things on him.   
  
“I don't know anything,” Optimus repeated. He gave a testing tug to the restraints. They didn't budge, and had probably been constructed for mechs much larger and stronger than himself.   
  
“I think that we will find something that does,” Megatron said, standing in front of Optimus with his arms crossed. His gaze was unforgiving. “Barring that, however, seeing him in pain is satisfying.”   
  
Barricade laughed, his multiple optics blinking in complicated patterns. “That's not how torture works, boss. You're supposed to promise that the pain will end if they talk.” He circled around Optimus, poking at the manacles and checking them for integrity.   
  
“It would be better to scan his processor,” Shockwave said, sounding bored from where he stood near the door. “It is the only way to be sure.”   
  
“You informed me during the last attempt that you couldn't break his firewalls.”   
  
“I have reason to believe that I've found the key.”   
  
Megatron half-turned toward the one-opticked mech. “Then I'll keep that in reserve. It's too easy, however.” His engine whined. “He has yet to learn what it means to obey.”   
  
There was a rattle and a squeal of unoiled gears before Optimus felt the chains pull harder at his wrists, until he stood on the tips of his pedes. It had the added discomfort of stretching out his substructure, widening the gaps in his armor and his plating, leaving him further defenseless.   
  
“As you wish, my lord.” Shockwave lapsed into silence, but his optic stared balefully in Optimus' direction, his fingers twitching as though he longed to rifle through Optimus' circuitry again.   
  
Optimus shuddered.   
  
Megatron's gaze flicked to Barricade. “Well?”   
  
A finger poked into Optimus' back, through a gap in his plating, the talon scraping a segment of his backstrut. Optimus jerked forward, hissing through his vents. That had been particularly sharp, fire blooming in its wake.   
  
“You want him alive when I'm done, yeah?” Barricade asked.   
  
“Yes. Even if it means I must leave him temporarily in Hook's care.”   
  
Barricade grinned with a mouthful of denta, far sharper than Megatron's own. “Okay then.” He paced in front of the table, talons dragging lightly across the gathered instruments. “You want a show, too?”   
  
Megatron folded his arms, his optics glittering with menace. “Yes.”   
  
“Mmmm. My pleasure.” Barricade selected a long, slender rod, the tip fitted with a hook-shaped metal piece.   
  
He moved back in front of Optimus, idly tapping the rod against his hand. “Do you know what this is, Prime?”  
  
“I do not.”   
  
“Bet your spec ops pet does.” Barricade's grin widened. He held up the rod, thumb flicking across a switch. The end lit up with blue electricity. “It's an energon rod. Handy little device. Narrow enough to slide through all those crevices. Variable settings for that perfect jolt.” He smacked his lips together. “Not quite enough to kill though.”   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. He was no stranger to pain. The knowledge that he could spill everything and the torture would still continue made him even more determined not to speak. He would guard what few secrets he carried with his spark.   
  
“I grow bored, Barricade,” Megatron said.   
  
Barricade clucked his glossa, leaning in close, though Optimus towered over him in his current position. “Has no sense of anticipation, does he?” He laughed darkly, the prod crackling at his side. “But I gotta do what the boss says.” He shrugged his shoulders and then whipped the rod up, jamming in between the armor plates on Optimus side.   
  
He went rigid, charge crackling through him, too sharp and hot to be anything but pain. His frame screamed at him. His vocalizer spat static. His vents seized. It was different than the shock collar, more localized.   
  
Then it was gone, Barricade jerking the rod free. He took a sliding step, scooting just to the limits of Optimus' visual feed. The rod nudged closer, the crackling edges of it biting at Optimus' armor, prickling the sensors beneath. It was an irritation, like an itch he couldn't scratch, the gnawing of a scraplet.   
  
“We all know how this is going to play,” Barricade said as he circled around to Optimus back, dragging the tip of the rod against his armor. “But for the sake of the game, let's pretend otherwise.”   
  
The rod lifted away, allowing Optimus to pull in a vent.   
  
“Now,” Barricade said with a growl. “Which Autobots are in hiding?”   
  
Optimus stared at Megatron, whose optics glittered with menace. “I don't know,” he answered, half-truth and half-lie. He had guesses, but not a single one he could give with any certainty. Not that he would.   
  
“Wrong answer.”   
  
The rod crackled as it slipped between his back plates and pressed right against his spinal strut. Chains rattled as Optimus arched away from it, fire racing up and down his back. His legs twitched. He swore he smelled smoke, as though something had burnt out.   
  
It ended.   
  
“Shall I be more clear?” Barricade asked, his tone condescending. “We know there are least six Autobots still cowering on Cybertron. Who are they?”   
  
Six? So few!   
  
Optimus' spark drew into itself.   
  
“I do not know.”   
  
“Lies again.” The energy rod skipped down Optimus' back, little jolts popping into his substructure. Barricade clucked his glossa once more. “I'm so disappointed in you, Prime. I thought you weren't supposed to lie.”   
  
“Not a lie,” Optimus gritted out. “We scattered. No communications. I do not know which of my Autobots survived.”   
  
Barricade entered his peripheral feed from the opposite side, still dragging that rod along Optimus armor. “And on Earth?”   
  
Optimus shook his helm. “I don't know.” This was the full truth. As far as he knew, none had survived on Earth. Granted he'd only left the Protectobots and the Dinobots behind with the intention of returning for them.   
  
Grimlock was hard to kill, but the Dinobots were hardly subtle and they were outnumbered. Optimus did not hold much hope. Especially given the sudden unfriendliness of the humans.   
  
“Hmm. You might actually be telling the truth about that,” Barricade said. “Oh, well.”   
  
Optimus had a moment to brace himself before Barricade shoved the energy prod into his side, sliding easily between two armor plates and right against his substructure. Optimus seized, fire licking through his protoform. The empty place where his T-cog had been ached.   
  
And then it was gone and Barricade circled back to Optimus' front. The stench of charred circuits filled the air. Optimus tasted smoke, the bitterness of it thick on his glossa. A low clatter split the silence. Optimus was shaking. He couldn't make himself stop. His shoulders whined, protesting his weight.   
  
The knowledge that Barricade had barely begun rang through his processor.   
  
Barricade rested the charged tip of the prod against Optimus' windshield, the charge crackling across the glass. It bit down through his seams, another unavoidable itch.   
  
“Should I ask again?”   
  
“Lord Megatron, if I might interrupt?” Shockwave proposed and Barricade withdrew the shock rod, half-turning to slant his multiple optics toward Shockwave.   
  
Megatron looked annoyed. “What is it, Shockwave?”   
  
“If you don't have need of my services, I was in the middle of some delicate calculations and--”  
  
Megatron waved a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine. Whatever. Go back to your laboratory. I'll summon you if I need you.”   
  
“Thank you, Lord Megatron.” Shockwave tilted his helm in a bow and made himself scarce.   
  
Megatron gestured toward Barricade. “Continue.”   
  
“With pleasure,” Barricade purred, and he returned his attention to Optimus, flicking the prod in front of him with practiced motions. “Now where were we? Ah. I remember. You were lying to me.”  
  
Optimus set his jaw.   
  
The prod tapped lightly against his chestplate, more a jolt than a shock. It then dragged lightly down, making Optimus squirm, buzzing across his grill, his ventrum, his pelvis, only to tap on his interfacing panel.   
  
“Gonna open for me, sweetspark?” Barricade purred, a snap of electricity hitting Optimus' panel with another jolt. “Or do I get to have some fun?”   
  
“Just rip it off,” Megatron said. “It's become a hindrance anyway.”   
  
Optimus snapped his panel open. He had little dignity left to lose but at least let him keep that. Rather than be forced to follow Megatron around Cybertron with his equipment exposed as if to advertise.   
  
“Guess he didn't like that idea,” the interrogator said with a laugh.   
  
The tip of the prod nosed Optimus' recessed spike. Tiny drips of charge spilled down against the sensitive component. Optimus gritted his denta, hips jerking in a vain attempt to escape it. The prod felt like the prickle-scrape of talons.  
  
“All I want is a name,” Barricade murmured, his gaze locked on Optimus' face as the charge biting at Optimus' spike increased a notch in intensity. “Well, several of them. But we can start with one.”   
  
Optimus gnawed on his bottom lip, his hands clenching into fists. His hips twitched restlessly, the itch shifting to a burn. His frame poked him with warnings. All of the lessons Jazz had given him abandoned Optimus. He told himself to endure. That Megatron didn't want him dead.   
  
The prod lifted and Optimus gasped in a ventilation.   
  
“Don't want to ruin it,” Barricade said, off hand. “May want to play with that later.”   
  
He tapped Optimus' array with the rod and then traced it along the inside of Optimus' thighs, up and down the left and then repeating on the right. Each sweep brought him perilously close to Optimus' valve.   
  
The urge to clamp his panel shut and keep it there almost overwhelmed him. Only the knowledge that they would remove it if he did kept Optimus from canceling the requests. The chains on his ankles rattled as he unconsciously tried to draw his legs together and failed. His pedes ached. His shoulders groaned.   
  
“Have you ever played with toys, Prime?” Barricade asked, conversational now. “A little something here in this valve? Teasing your nodes? Making you overload again and again?” The interrogator chuckled. “This is not one of those toys.”   
  
The tip of the prod thrust between Optimus' legs, the sharp bite of it nipping at the rim of his valve before it gnawed on his anterior node. A whimper tore itself from Optimus' throat, his vents stalling. His visual feed went white. He wasn't even sure if he could call it pain, the agony too sharp, too piercing.   
  
Warnings shrieked across his processor, redlined. Optimus spat out something, a plea perhaps, noise rushing through his audials.   
  
It ended and Optimus gasped for a ventilation, his processor spinning. He tried to online his optics and had to reboot them. His anterior node throbbed and if it was possible, his spike retreated deeper into its housing.   
  
“Now that was a pretty reaction,” Barricade mused.   
  
The prod nosed between Optimus' thighs again, teasing against his valve rim with a lighter charge. It buzzed and snapped. Optimus groaned.   
  
The tip rubbed over his outer rim several times and then tipped upward, pushing inside his valve. Optimus made a choked noise, helm tossing as the little pricks and nips of the charge stung at the walls of his valve.   
  
“Don't damage him more than I can use him,” Megatron warned.   
  
“Nothing that can't be fixed,” Barricade agreed and he pushed the prod deeper.   
  
The chains rattled. The tip of Optimus' pedes scraped the floor as he tried to push himself away, his calipers squeezing and clenching, an attempt to force the prod out. Both failed. The prod nudged deeper, the charge pecking at his deepest nodes.   
  
Barricade tilted his helm to the side, wriggled the prod around, and poked at Optimus' spike with two talon tips. He pinched the head of it, making Optimus' hips jerk.   
  
“Hmm. Not interested in playing yet? I can fix that.” He grinned, denta flashing in the overhead light, and his thumb flicked a switch on the energon prod.   
  
Just as quick, the biting prickle of the rod changed to a warm, buzzing. Optimus' valve fluttered, confused, until the soft sensation soothed away the sting. His array warmed, lubricant gathering at the back of his valve.   
  
Optimus wheezed a ventilation. “Don't--”  
  
“What? Make you enjoy it?” Barricade's optics blinked out of succession. “Don't you want to see how nice I am?” The pad of his thumb gently circled the tip of Optimus' spike, encouraging it to pressurize.   
  
“Nothing about this is nice,” Optimus hissed, his engine whining. The prod vibrated away, drawing forth pearls of lubricant.   
  
Megatron chuckled, his optics visibly glittering from over Barricade's shoulder. Optimus ignored him.   
  
“I'm not allowed to kill you,” Barricade retorted, his hand lifting from Optimus' spike to drag a talon down the center of his chestplate, tracing the seam. “Otherwise you would see how not nice I am.”   
  
He grinned and dropped his hand again, encircling the tip of Optimus' spike as it peeked from its sheath. “Ah, there you are.” He gave Optimus' spike a light stroke, the soft pleasure encouraging it to fully pressurize.   
  
Lubricant seeped from Optimus' valve, dripping onto his thighs and the floor.   
  
“Even better.” Barricade hummed his approval. “Now we can really have some fun.”   
  
Optimus seized as the pleasure in his valve abruptly switched to agony, blazing hot fire in the wake of the purring softness. His mouth opened but his vocalizer only spat static. He thrashed in the chains, desperate to get away. He swore that all he could smell was that of his own systems frying, smoke and char.   
  
His vocalizer abruptly started working, spilling out desperate whimpers. He gritted his denta so hard he heard the metal shearing together.   
  
Fire stripped down his spike as Barricade dragged the edge of his claws down the delicate metal, drawing energon and peeling away thin curls of dermal plating. Optimus gasped, his vents stalling once more. Overheat warnings popped up, over and over, faster than he could acknowledge them.   
  
Barricade gripped his spike and squeezed. He shoved the prod deeper, pinned it right against Optimus' deepest node, and smirked.   
  
Optimus screamed.   
  
He thrashed in the chains, heard something creak and groan. What felt like blaster fire erupted in his valve, his sensors screaming for mercy as Barricade must have turned the prod to its highest setting.   
  
His visual feed completely fritzed. His processor flared crimson. His spark swelled, filling every nook and cranny of his chamber. The world became a kaleidoscope of excruciating fire.   
  
Then it was over, it was over and he panted desperately, overheating, his valve throbbing with agony and every tense cable fraught with pain.   
  
His vents itched. He didn't even try to reboot his optics. The sound of his screams seemed to echo in his audials. His valve burned and Optimus moaned as he felt Barricade withdraw it, the slide of the smooth metal almost a relief compared to the consuming bite of the charge.   
  
“That,” Barricade purred, “was beautiful.”   
  
Optimus shivered. His optics weren't working, but he heard the shuffle of Barricade's pedesteps as he walked away.   
  
He feared that if he'd looked down, he'd see nothing but a burnt husk where his valve had been. Surely the whole array would need to be replaced.   
  
“Tell me, Prime,” Barricade's vocals sounded as if they came from a distance, “do you feel like giving me the truth now?”   
  
Optimus rebooted his vocalizer twice. It took him two tries to produce the words. “I have not lied.”   
  
“I expected as much.” He heard the rustle and rattle of small objects before Barricade's voice got closer. “Good thing I'm not done having fun yet.”  
  
Optimus' optics finally onlined to find that Barricade was back in front of him again, juggling five small vials amid his fingers. They danced across his joints, glass glinting in the overhead light.   
  
“I probably should have lead with these,” Barricade said conversationally, his optics watching the dance of the vials. “But I really wanted to try out my new toy. Do you know what this is?”   
  
The liquid was thin and almost clear. Optimus did not recognize it, though he suspected he should have. Jazz would have known.   
  
“I do not.”   
  
“This...” Barricade flicked one up and caught it with his other hand, pinching it between his claws, “is what your pet tactician put in his favorite blaster.”   
  
Acid.   
  
Optimus worked his intake and his optics cut to Megatron. “You wish to debilitate me?”   
  
Megatron smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “I'm sure Barricade knows how to keep from permanent damage.”   
  
“Of course I do. Nothing that can't be repaired by Hook,” he parroted, and stepped closer, flicking the cap off the vial. “This is a milder form. Hurts like the Pit though.”   
  
There was no odor, at least none that Optimus could detect, but his internals went icy with fear. His chains rattled. His spike was still exposed.   
  
“Now don't move,” Barricade said, stepping close, into the nearest edge of Optimus' withdrawn field. “Wouldn't want me to spill somewhere I don't intend, would you?”   
  
Optimus froze, even his vents stalling. He tilted his gaze at Barricade, watching with a growing horror as Barricade rolled the capped vials over his knuckles. His multiple optics raked over Optimus' frame as though trying to decide the best path to pain.   
  
“Too bad I can't reach your fingers,” he mused aloud. “Maybe next time.”   
  
He nudged a knee between Optimus' legs and the one hand rested on Optimus' right hip, two fingers dipping into a seam and nudging apart the armor plates. He heard the soft tap of glass against metal and then the trickle of something cold against his cables. It dripped behind his plating, splashing over lines.   
  
His hip began to warm and then it heated, as though someone had started a fire under his armor. Optimus trembled from the effort of holding himself still, there was an overwhelming urge to try and get away from the discomfort.   
  
He shuttered his optics and felt Barricade withdraw. His sensors tracked Barricade moving around him, stalking slowly. The empty vial was tossed to the ground where it shattered.   
  
Clink. Clink. Clink. The remaining vials danced around Barricade's fingers. Optimus' hip burned, a flush of fire spreading through the entire assembly.   
  
There was a touch on his right knee. Optimus jerked it away, but Barricade tightened his grip, clicking his glossa.   
  
“Remember,” he said with a dark chuckle. “You have to be still.”   
  
Talons prickled at his seams. Glass tapped on his armor. Liquid dripped down into the workings of his joint, soaking into cables and hydraulics. The chill was chased away with a warm glow that soon turned into a blazing heat to match his hip.   
  
A strangled noise caught itself in Optimus' vocalizers. His systems sent overheat warnings and his cooling fans whirred to life, vibrating his frame.   
  
Barricade moved around him. Clink. Clink. Clink.   
  
Talons scraped down Optimus' back, skipping over the plates, catching in the seams. He felt paint as it scraped away, flaking to the ground. The edge of one claw dipped into his shoulder, teasing the complicated mechanism beneath.   
  
Optimus tensed. His shoulder flexed at Barricade's touch.   
  
“I want to hear another one of those lovely screams,” Barricade murmured.   
  
Tink went glass against metal as cold drizzled into Optimus' shoulder, slithering over his cables, dripping against his substructure.   
  
Heat crackled and blazed through Optimus' hip, his knee, his shoulder. He felt himself growing tense, ruffling all the cables and igniting a fresh flush of agony. It wasn't as sharp and cutting as the energon prod had been, but a resonating ache that made his spark flutter. He couldn't ignore it, couldn't run away from it, and couldn't dismiss the warnings fast enough.   
  
It left him wanting to squirm and knowing he shouldn't, forcing himself to hold still as Barricade moved again and Optimus felt the interrogator's touch on his right ankle joint. His engine puttered a weak protest, still throttled, and Optimus didn't dare online his optics. He didn't want Megatron to read the panic in them.   
  
Talons prickled over the tire on his lower leg, preceding the drip, drip, drip of more acid into the complicated and tiny joints of Optimus' ankle. He felt his armor trembling, his entire frame vibrating from the effort of keeping his weight from shifting. Every minute flex of his cables worked the acid deeper, a maddening itch that he couldn't scratch. Bearing his weight upon that pede was a special kind of agony, worse that by shifting his weight to his left leg put more pull on his left shoulder. There was nowhere to adjust.   
  
Tink.   
  
One more vial.   
  
Hydraulics hissed as Barricade stood and circled back to Optimus' front. One long finger dragged down the side of Optimus' face with a scrape of a single talon.   
  
“You're shaking,” Barricade observed.   
  
Optimus onlined his optics, forcing himself to only look at Barricade, though he felt the weight of Megatron's stare. Those dark optics hungered.   
  
It took two tries before Optimus could engage his vocalizer. “Unavoidable,” he managed.   
  
Barricade chuckled. “Oh, I know.” His talon hooked on Optimus' bottom lip, pulling it and his jaw down, forcing his mouth open. “Give me your glossa.”   
  
Optimus made a low noise of refusal.   
  
“Stubborn, I see,” Barricade said, and his mouth curled into a slow, fanged smirk. His other hand pressed against Optimus' bare array, the taloned tip of his thumb poking at Optimus' recessed spike as his fingers curled on the inside of his valve rim. The cold vial pressed against Optimus' anterior node. He jolted.   
  
“Then I'll give you a choice,” Barricade purred. “Your glossa or your spike? Because I suspect Lord Megatron doesn't intend to use the latter much anyway. Pit, he might not even bother to have it repaired.”  
  
A choice.   
  
Optimus cringed.   
  
“Tick, tock, Prime,” Barricade said, the tip of his claw digging into the curve of Optimus' lip, drawing a bead of energon. The other pushed into the transfluid split of his spike, causing a lance of pain.   
  
Optimus' plating rattled. He made his choice.   
  
He lapped at the tip of Barricade's finger and let his glossa emerge, offering it to the interrogator. The alternative, he reasoned, was worse.   
  
“Smart mech,” Barricade said and withdrew his talon from Optimus' array, using the same hand to pinch the tip of Optimus' glossa between two claws. He pulled on it, straining the limits of the connector, and Optimus gagged. His intake flexed.   
  
“Now don't get used to hearing this, but don't swallow. Or I can't be held responsible for the damage to your tank,” Barricade said.   
  
Optimus trembled, oral fluid gathering in his mouth and dribbling out. It dripped onto his chestplate, on the floor, and trickled down the sides of his intake.   
  
Don't swallow.   
  
Barricade kept his grip on Optimus' glossa, but he released Optimus' bottom lip, grabbing the vial and flicking it open with one hand. There was no odor to serve as warning, nothing but the long scrape of a claw down the center of Optimus' glossa, digging a furrow into the thin, dermal metal. And then a glint of light over the glass as Barricade tipped the vial up and let it drip on to Optimus' glossa, drop by anxious drop.   
  
Optimus watched. He counted. He cringed as it started as a tingle, an itch, and then turned into a heat. An itchy heat. It crackled and spat when mixed with his oral lubricant. It pooled in the furrow, digging deeper into his glossa. The heat became a burn, a blaze of agony.   
  
Optimus' chains rattled. His pede slipped and he struggled to regain his balance with his aching pede and hip and shoulder. He tried to retract his glossa, but Barricade's grip was firm, his talons all but puncturing the dermal metal.   
  
A helpless sound broke from his vocalizer. He didn't care how pathetic it sounded. There was still half a vial to go and his glossa was already scorched. Sensors popped and fizzled out, damage reports streaming through his processor.   
  
“What would I have to do,” Barricade murmured, “to get another one of those lovely screams?” His talon scraped at Optimus' glossa, scratching the areas where the acid had not touched.   
  
Optimus shuddered.   
  
Barricade tilted his helm and then abruptly capped the vial, dancing it across his fingers before it vanished, perhaps into subspace. He gripped Optimus' jaw, keeping his helm tilted down, but he let go of Optimus' glossa. He clamped down on the immediate reaction to draw it back, instead tilting it down, hoping that the last of the acid would drip off. Oral lubricant trickled free.   
  
“I think I have an idea,” Barricade said, and his multiple optics lit up with glee. “I even think you'll like it.”   
  
Barricade let go of his face and Optimus sagged. His glossa ached. The last of the acid fizzled out, though the blazing heat remained. He smelled scorched energon, felt it welling from the scores on his dermal metal.   
  
He reluctantly drew his singed glossa back into his mouth. The simple act of moving it sent fresh shards of agony over his sensors. Half of them were now deemed useless. Self-repair swarmed toward the burns, but with so much else to do, it was overwhelmed.   
  
Optimus closed his mouth and stared at the floor. He couldn't stop shaking. He could hear his plating as it clattered, the chains above him rattling from every minute movement. He shifted his weight, trying to ease the pressure on his knee and his ankle, but nothing helped. He couldn't stop shaking and his vents were hiccuping and the Decepticons had stopped asking him questions a long time ago.   
  
It was never about the answers.   
  
Barricade was not gone for long. He returned quickly, as though he'd already known which of his instruments of torture he preferred next. He carried a crowbar, a crude instrument, but effective.   
  
Optimus braced himself for a beating. That, at least, would be more tolerable. How many times had he engaged in physical combat with Megatron? How many times had he been beaten down and only saved by the timely intervention of his Autobots?  
  
Barricade tilted his helm, one finger running down the length of the crowbar. “I wonder what you're thinking, Prime,” he said as he paced back and forth in front of Optimus, small steps that set up a rhythm. “Are you relieved? Do you think a few blows with this are easier to take? It has other uses, you know.”   
  
Barricade paused. The crowbar swung in a low arc in front of him. He tapped his own chestplate, the metal ringing hollowly.   
  
“What's in a name?” he mused and then a wicked smirk took over his lips. “They also call this a prybar.”   
  
Panic strobed through Optimus' spark. No.   
  
He leaned back, as far as the chains would allow, the tip of his pedes scratching at the floor.   
  
Barricade snagged a claw on his windshield, dragging him back close. “This is the most fight you've given me.” The crowbar tapped against the glass and Optimus heard a small crack ripple through it.   
  
“How precious is this?” Barricade asked, his vocals hissing, as though anticipation threaded it's way through him.   
  
He jabbed the pointed end of the crowbar into the seam of Optimus' chestplates, wriggling it about. Pain lanced through Optimus' chassis and he tensed, a cry catching in his intake.   
  
“Would you fight harder if I threatened your spark?” Barricade leaned his weight upon the bar, digging it deeper, metal scraping on metal. The blunt tip of it scraped Optimus' secondary plate. “Would you give me the truth then?”   
  
“Enough!”   
  
The pain stopped. Optimus swallowed down another sob, sagging in his chains. He stared through a fuzzy visual feed as Megatron strode forward and all but knocked Barricade aside. He grabbed Optimus' jaw and turned Optimus' helm to the left and right as though examining him.   
  
“There are things that are not for you to take,” Megatron said and he sounded almost jealous.   
  
“My apologies, boss. I'll leave that particular pleasure for you then,” Barricade said, far too cheerfully for Optimus' comfort. He stepped back with a flourish, offering the crowbar to Megatron. “By your leave.”   
  
Megatron snorted and dismissed the offer as he continued to examine Optimus, his touch almost gentle. “Not now. I do at least want some information out of this. Bring me Soundwave.”   
  
Barricade dipped his helm in a bow. “If you insist.” He tossed the instrument onto the table and left the cell. Comms didn't work down here, Optimus assumed.   
  
He sucked in a rattling ventilation. There wasn't a strut on him, a cable, that did not hurt. He felt flayed, split open, and he almost wondered, which was worse. This pain, or the humiliation Megatron forced upon him.   
  
Megatron kept his grip on Optimus' jaw, but his other hand rested on Optimus' chestplate. Fingers dragged down, over his windshield, through the seeping energon, until they found and lightly encircled his bruised spike. Optimus made a helpless noise as Megatron took his spike in hand with an almost distant curiosity.   
  
“You are made of sterner metal than I would have thought, Prime,” he mused.   
  
Optimus had to reboot his vocalizer three times before he could speak, and even then, what emerged was laced with static. “I stood against you for millennia.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “That you did.” He squeezed Optimus' spike and Optimus jerked, helm rolling on his shoulders as his frame writhed. “Though your defeat was inevitable.”   
  
He let go of Optimus' spike and reached further down, two taloned fingers pushing up into Optimus' sore valve. A strangled noise escaped him and his thighs trembled, once again wishing he could draw them closed.   
  
“Barricade does good work,” Megatron mused aloud. “I imagine you can withstand more.”   
  
Optimus' engine whined without his consent.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “Or maybe not.” He swirled his fingers within Optimus' valve and withdrew them, holding them up to Optimus' mouth. “Open.”  
  
Stained as they were with his own lubricant and energon. Optimus shuddered. Megatron's grip on his jaw tightened to the tune of creaking metal. And Optimus obeyed, his lips parting.   
  
“Stick out your glossa.”   
  
He shuttered his optics. His glossa emerged and Megatron wiped his fingers off on it. He barely felt the touch as anything more than a longer scrape of pain. Optimus felt more than saw the grin on Megatron's lips.   
  
“I still want answers, Prime,” Megatron said, his fingers putting pressure on Optimus' glossa, ignoring the thin stream of oral lubricant that gathered at the corners of Optimus' mouth. “Even if I have to rip them from your processor.”   
  
The door to the cell slid open and Optimus onlined his optics to find Soundwave stepping inside. He drew to a halt at the sight of the two of them. His visor dimming.   
  
“Soundwave is needed?”  
  
“Yes. Come here.” Megatron dragged his fingers off Optimus' glossa, though he kept his grip on Optimus' jaw. “I am in need of your expertise.”   
  
The communications officer approached Optimus, his plating drawn tight against his frame. “Shockwave's scan--”  
  
“--can't get past his firewalls. Or so he told me once. They recode themselves faster than he can decode them and I don't want to waste the time to let him try again,” Megatron said and released Optimus, stepping back. “Your turn.”   
  
Soundwave's visor dimmed. “Uncertain of success.”   
  
“I don't care.” Megatron frowned, his optics narrowing as he stared at Soundwave. “I want you to see what you can find even if it is nothing.”   
  
Soundwave dipped his helm. “Understood. Proximity necessary.”   
  
“I know. I know.” Megatron waved him off, taking another step back. “I'll be by the door.” He turned on a heel and took up his position by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.   
  
Soundwave took his place, standing directly in front of Optimus. With both mask and visor, it was impossible to read his expression, but the tight clamping of his armor suggested this wasn't a pleasant task.   
  
He lifted a hand and pressed it to Optimus' face. Two fingers rested on Optimus' forehelm, the others hovered just above the thin, flexible dermal plate.   
  
“Relax,” Soundwave monotoned. “It will be gentler.”   
  
Somehow, Optimus doubted it. But he shuttered his optics, if only so he wouldn't have to look at Soundwave while the mech ripped apart his processor.   
  
At first, he felt nothing, and then there was a sudden sharp and piercing pain that made Optimus flinch, his vents catch. It was over as fast as it had begun, but the dizziness followed. A sense of vertigo despite his optics being offline. His frame felt as though he were spinning without solid ground beneath him.   
  
Optimus' tanks flipped.   
  
There was a not-sensation in his processor. Like a tickle of fingers or a trickle of water across his thoughts, his data. It was both different and the same as when Ratchet plugged into him. An awareness of another presence, an intangible touch that could nonetheless be felt.   
  
There was no point in firewalls. Soundwave's touch didn't even register to them. He hadn't hacked into Optimus because they hadn't crossed cables. His system didn’t register a foreign presence.   
  
If Optimus had not known Soundwave was in his mind, he wouldn't have been able to sense it. Did it only work by touch? Because otherwise how had Soundwave not been probing their thoughts for years?  
  
But Soundwave only ghosted through Optimus' processor. He didn't linger. He opened no files. He brushed Optimus' surface thoughts.   
  
Optimus onlined his optics, world still spinning, but in front of him, Soundwave was stock still. His visor was dark. A shiver fluttered down the carrier's plating.   
  
There was another brief, sharp pinch. Optimus flinched, hissing air through his intake, and then Soundwave withdrew his touch, stepping back. He wobbled, but was quick to catch himself. The light returned to his visor.   
  
“Well?” Megatron demanded, storming forward.   
  
“Prime does not lie,” Soundwave answered, visor flicking fitfully. “Number of Autobot survivors and their location is unknown.”   
  
Megatron growled, optics narrowing. “What about identities?”   
  
“Suspected but not confirmed.”   
  
Triumph gleamed in the warlord's optics. “Give me names.”   
  
Dread thudded into Optimus' tanks. But he thanked Primus he did not have many to give.   
  
“Trailbreaker. Jazz.”   
  
Megatron went rigid with anger. His hands snapped into fists. “Jazz,” he hissed, and Optimus did not like the way Megatron snarled his third's name.   
  
“Likely the culprit,” Soundwave said.   
  
“I should have guessed.” Megatron swung toward Optimus, grabbing his jaw once more and yanking him forward, straining the give of the chains. “No wonder you resist. You think your little spy is going to rescue you.”   
  
“I think nothing,” Optimus said, his vocalizer strained as the cables in his intake tightened around it. If Megatron pulled much further, something would snap. “But for every Autobot that escapes you, I am grateful.”   
  
“Every Autobot? How many do you really think are left?” Megatron demanded. “I have caught or killed the majority of your army. I have crushed your resistance beneath my heels, and you dare think that escape is an option.”   
  
Optimus worked his intake. “Every tyrant falls eventually. So, too, will you.”   
  
Rage, like such he'd never felt before, lashed at Optimus. Megatron released him, but only to slam a fist into his face, rocking his helm to the side. He felt his dermal plating give, his cheek ridge crack, his optic shatter. His visual feed was cut in half. He bit his glossa, tasting energon.   
  
Another blow slammed into his ventrum and Optimus would have curled into himself if he could. As it was, his ventilations stalled. He heard his plating give, heard and felt the splash of energon. Something ground within him, wet and sticky.   
  
Megatron rained upon him a series of blows that Optimus could not avoid, no matter how he twisted his frame. He could only lock down the screams, register the pain, count the punches.   
  
He thought, as his processor spun and his energon levels dipped down below twenty percent again and his shoulder dislocated with a loud and painful snap, that Megatron might truly kill him this time.   
  
Maybe that was the mercy.   
  
Until there was a roar and abruptly, the punches ceased. Optimus stared through one optic, weakly flickering, as Megatron staggered backward and a boxy blue frame stepped between them.   
  
The fusion cannon powered up with an ominous roar. It aimed their direction. “Get out of the way, Soundwave!”   
  
“Intention: to kill Optimus Prime?”  
  
Megatron cycled his optics. “You would stop me?”  
  
“Recommend caution only.” Soundwave's monotone betrayed nothing, but Optimus could see the minute flickers of his back plating. He was terrified. “Prime's worth higher if left functioning.”   
  
The warlord's frame twitched. He visibly performed a systems check before the cannon powered down. “You may be right,” he said, leashed rage still coiled about his frame. “Move aside, Soundwave. That's an order.”   
  
Soundwave dipped his helm in a bow and obeyed, though he turned to watch.   
  
Optimus dragged in a shaky ventilation, preparing himself for anything. But all Megatron did was press the burning barrel of his cannon to Optimus' chest, searing the places where his plating had been fractured, giving way to his protoform.   
  
“Even in defeat you taunt me, Prime,” Megatron said in a low tone, his vents heaving. “It's clear I haven't taught you your place.”   
  
Optimus' vocalizer clicked but wouldn't engage. His fuel readings were a baleful seventeen percent. Much lower and he would drop into stasis lock.   
  
When Megatron's hand touched his face, it was almost gentle the way his fingers curled around Optimus' jaw, his thumb stroking over Optimus' split lip.   
  
“And it occurs to me, Soundwave, that I have been a selfish leader. I have hoarded Prime to myself.” Megatron's optics darkened, and the smile on his lips was far from amused. “It's time that I change that, don't you think?”   
  
Soundwave dipped his helm, his visor nearly impossible to see. “Understood, Lord Megatron. Arrangements will be made.”   
  
“Good,” Megatron purred. He leaned in, glossa sweeping over Optimus' mouth, curling away with a drop of his energon. “It's past time I learned to share, don't you think?” His denta gleamed with Optimus' energon.   
  
Optimus had no prayers left to give.   
  


***


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron, Optimus, Scrapper, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Motormaster, Overlord, Soundwave and his cassettes, Starscream, the Combaticons, Bluestreak  
> Warnings this chapter: aphrodisiac in the form of a virus, mentions of character death
> 
> Mood Music: "Dance with the Devil," Breaking Benjamin

Megatron was true to his word in one aspect. He wanted Optimus to be fully-functional. After Barricade was done, he dumped Optimus in Constructicon care and left him there, setting out to arrange Optimus' punishment.  
  
Hook promptly put Optimus in stasis before he could so much as protest or put up a fight or ask about Ratchet.  
  
Optimus welcomed the dark. There was no pain in stasis but his own mental agony. The purges were worse now, memories of all the terrible decisions he'd made that had led them to this point intermingled of what he'd endured under Megatron's hand and what he'd seen his Autobots endure.  
  
He lurched online in the middle of a cycle, disorientated, immobile, and confused. How long had he been offline? His chronometer suggested days, but surely not that long?  
  
The entire medbay was dark, save for the lights from various equipment. Optimus rebooted his entire sensory net and that was when he realized he wasn't alone.  
  
There was a cassette sitting on his chestplate.  
  
He opened his mouth, but his vocalizer wouldn't engage. He couldn't move his arms or legs; he couldn't move his helm. He could only stare as Frenzy – or perhaps it was Rumble, Optimus always had difficulty telling them apart – perched on his windshield, a smirk on his face.  
  
“Ya can't move cause I won't let ya,” the cassette said, leaning forward and bracing his hands at the top edge of Optimus' chestplate. “Can't have ya thrashing around and makin' noise and callin' Scrapper back in here. We need ta chat and it's better ta do it without overhearin' audials, if ya get what I'm sayin'.”  
  
Optimus cycled his optics.  
  
“Yer vocalizer's off cause I didn't want ya shoutin' either. But I'll turn it back on if ya promise not ta scream. So do ya?”  
  
Why would he scream? What purpose would it serve? Surely Soundwave was too loyal to kill Optimus against Megatron's wishes. After all, had he not prevented Megatron from doing it himself earlier in the orn? Optimus also doubted that the cassette – Frenzy, he was sure it must be Frenzy – had come to make use of Megatron's slave either. Not without Megatron's express permission.  
  
Optimus couldn't move his helm. He winked his optics, first one and then the other.  
  
“That's what I thought.” Frenzy grinned and reached for Optimus' intake, pulling a small device away.  
  
Functionality returned. Optimus rebooted his vocalizer, felt it engage. He supposed Hook had fixed it.  
  
“W-what do you want?” Optimus asked, clearing out a few burrs of static and keeping his vocals quiet.  
  
“Just to chat. Ask a few questions. We're all a little curious.” Frenzy braced his elbows on Optimus' windshield and cupped his jaw in his hands. His visor flashed. “No one knows I'm here, 'cept the boss, so I'd appreciate it if ya keep this to yerself, too.”  
  
“Or?”  
  
“Or Soundwave'll have to do somethin' unpleasant and I don't think any of us want that.”  
  
Optimus grimaced. “He's already done so.” What else would they call that mental intrusion? It had hardly been done with Optimus' consent.  
  
Frenzy waved a hand of dismissal. “That little poke? Hah. That was the gentle treatment. A show. For our master's benefit.”  
  
Master. Optimus repeated that term to himself, focusing on it. Was there a reason Frenzy had selected it or was his language as lazy as his accent? Optimus doubted it, given his carrier.  
  
“Besides, what would ya gain from rattin' us out to Megatron or Shockwave? Not like yer their friend or anythin'.”  
  
“Nor am I yours,” Optimus pointed out. Given their current circumstances, and the fact he couldn't move, he hardly considered Frenzy any better than the aforementioned two. Though he did find it curious that Frenzy spoke nothing of Starscream.  
  
“True. But we could be. Friends, that is.” Frenzy flashed another grin and he shifted position, sprawled on top of Optimus' chassis as though it were a comfortable platform. His legs kicked in the air. “We gotta few questions and how ya answer them could mean good news for everyone.”  
  
Optimus cycled his optics down. “I'm listening.”  
  
“Of course ya are. I didn't give ya much of a choice about it.” Frenzy paused, helm tilting, his field flickering with irritation. “Yeah, yeah. I'm gettin' to it. Sheesh.” He looked down at Optimus. “The boss is impatient.”  
  
“I suspect you are on a time limit,” Optimus said. He didn't know what time it was or how that mattered in the shift cycles. Or how Frenzy was going undetected. Though considering how often they had found the cassettes in the Ark, it came as no surprise.  
  
Frenzy inclined his helm. “True.” He kicked his legs again and laced his fingers under his jaw. “So here's the deal. Gotta hypothetical question, okay? What would ya have done, say, if the Autobots had won the war instead?”  
  
Optimus blinked. “Beg pardon?”  
  
“It's an easy question, Prime. If, say, you'd beaten Megatron and won the war and got back our planet, what would you have done to us Decepticons?”  
  
“Why does that matter?”  
  
“It just does.”  
  
Optimus huffed a vent of frustration. “I do not know what answer you are looking for Frenzy, because that is beyond the scope of my imagination. But I can answer with certainty that I would not have forced any surrendering Decepticons into becoming slaves.”  
  
“Prison fer life then, right? Or maybe reprogramming? Execution?” Frenzy's tone remained light, but his words were far from it.  
  
Where was this coming from? Why did it matter? It was all a moot point! The Decepticons had won; the Autobots had lost. There was no purpose in discussing hypotheticals.  
  
Optimus shuttered his optics and performed a systems check. Frenzy would not be asking these without a reason. In fact, he should better consider that it wasn't Frenzy asking but Soundwave.  
  
“I suppose,” he began, unshuttering his optics, “that it would have depended on the Decepticon. Imprisonment would have been standard. But I always hoped that Autobots and Decepticons could one day live together in peace.”  
  
“Ya still hope that?”  
  
Optimus' tank churned. His valve, though repaired, ached in remembrance. “I am finding it difficult to see how it could be possible,” he admitted.  
  
Especially given Megatron's current rate of execution. There would be no Autobots left to live in peace. Or what few did survive Megatron's wrath had nothing to look forward to. For what was a life that existed within chains?  
  
Frenzy inclined his helm. “Yeah. I see what ya mean.” He flexed his fingers, drumming them on his faceplate. “So, hypothetically speakin' mind, say ya were to be freed somehow. Think there's still a chance?”  
  
“For peace?”  
  
“For Autobots and Decepticons ta work together.”  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. There was no point in being anything less than honest. “No, Frenzy, I do not. Working through the grudges of war is one thing. What has become of the Decepticons now cannot be attributed solely to what is necessary for war.”  
  
“Huh.” Frenzy's expression betrayed nothing, but his pedes stopped their playful bounce and his helm straightened. “You'd kill us?”  
  
Optimus flinched. Even now, the thought of brutally taking a spark was still unappealing. He'd like to think that he could easily shove his fist into Megatron's chassis and tear out the warlord's pulsing spark, but even the thought of doing so made him ill.  
  
He was a Prime. He had never been meant for taking a life. That was only what the war had made of him and he regretted every Cybertronian who had died by his hand.  
  
That regret, that mercy, he knew, was what had doomed them. Still he could not change his way of thinking.  
  
He did not deserve to be Prime. He did not deserve to leave the Autobots. He had failed them all.  
  
“No, I would not,” Optimus admitted with a quiet sigh. “But the chance for the two sides to negotiate a peace has gone. If, by some stroke of luck or Primus gift, the Autobots were to find their freedom, it would not be to share a home with Decepticons.”  
  
It was a moot point. There were no living Autobot shuttles or spacecraft. They had no means of leaving Cybertron. Even if they could find some means to escape their shackles, there was nowhere to run.  
  
Frenzy pushed himself upright, curling his legs beneath him though he didn't immediately remove himself from Optimus' chestplate. “Ya'd leave Cybertron?”  
  
“We are outnumbered,” Optimus said. “I do not see the Decepticons choosing to leave instead. Yes, we would leave. There are other places to find refuge.”  
  
Frenzy frowned, lips pinching together. He fidgeted as though listening to some internal connection. Optimus, his comms disabled if not removed, could not even detect the presence of signals.  
  
“Okay,” Frenzy finally said with a defining nod of his helm. “That'll do.”  
  
Confused, Optimus cycled his optics. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I got all the answers I need.” Frenzy flipped backward, braced his weight on his hands, and then leapt off the berth, landing soundlessly beside Optimus' berth. “Mebbe we'll chat again. Mebbe we won't.” He flicked a hand in a wave and whirled toward the far door. “Catch ya later.”  
  
“Wait!” His vocalizer protested, unhappy with any volume above a whisper. If Optimus could move, he would have.  
  
Frenzy, at least, paused to look at him. “I'm kinda on a time limit here. Whaddya want?”  
  
There were a million questions Optimus could ask but only one of them mattered at the moment. “My Autobots. How many?”  
  
Again, that look of intense concentration stole over Frenzy's face. His optical band darkened before he sighed. “Ten.”  
  
So few. Did he dare ask who they, for lack of a better word, belonged to? He knew of Ratchet's fate at least. But what happened to Hound after his appearance in the arena? Who else labored under Megatron's thumb?  
  
He half-feared knowing.  
  
Frenzy suddenly stiffened. “Scrap,” he hissed and darted for the door. He opened it and was gone before Optimus could call to him again.  
  
He lost his chance.  
  
A shadow shifted in front of the door to Optimus' recovery room, perhaps the reason for Frenzy's abrupt exit, and then the door slid open. Scrapper stepped inside, his optical band a dull red gleam in the dim of the room.  
  
“Oh,” he said with a startled look at Optimus. “You're online.”  
  
Scrapper was alone, Optimus noted. “Where is Ratchet?”  
  
The Constructicon commander gave him a placid look. “He's not yours anymore,” Scrapper said and brought the lights up to eighty percent before he moved further into the room. “But to prevent you from badgering me, you won't be seeing him. It's Mixmaster's turn.”  
  
Optimus' frown deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Scrapper held up a hand and a finger.  
  
“No,” he said. “It's none of your business. As I said, Ratchet is ours, and you are Megatron's. Keep quiet or I'll be forced to disable your vocalizer. Am I clear?”  
  
Optimus performed a systems check. “Yes.”  
  
Mixmaster's turn. The very term made Optimus' internals flipflop with disgust. The Constructions were sharing one of his oldest and dearest friends. And all he was doing was lying in this berth, waiting for sensation to return before Megatron came and dragged him off to his own terrible fate.  
  
Frenzy had the gall to ask what he would have done. To engage in hypotheticals that had no bearing on his current situation.  
  
“Good.”  
  
All at once, the numbness vanished from Optimus' frame and he was able to move. He didn't know if it was something Scrapper had done or Frenzy had undone from a distance, but he wasn't going to ask. It was, so far, in his best interest to keep Frenzy and Soundwave's visit a secret.  
  
For now.  
  
Scrapper slid a finger between Optimus' intake and the collar, giving it a little tug. Optimus grimaced, but was unable to move away from the touch.  
  
“Still solid,” Scrapper said, as if to himself. He ceased examining Optimus' collar to tap his fingers along the shackles welded to his wrists and ankles. “These are good, too.”  
  
Optimus bit down on a bitter retort and tried to ignore Scrapper. The Constructicon kept up a running commentary, mostly on the state of Optimus' repairs and the skill with which they had been completed. None of it required Optimus' response.  
  
Optimus frowned.  
  
What had been the purpose behind Frenzy's questions? They were nothing but pointless hypotheticals. They meant nothing.  
  
And why was _Soundwave_ of all Decepticons the one to present them? What did it mean?  
  
Laughter in the hallway made Optimus stiffen. He knew those vocals and it was with no small amount of trepidation that he turned his helm toward the door. It slid open to admit Megatron, the warlord striding into the room in much higher spirits than the last time Optimus had been conscious.  
  
Megatron's fury was gone, either buried or completely dismissed. He grinned as his very presence filled the room.  
  
“Is he ready?”  
  
“He's repaired,” Scrapper said and the medberth adjusted itself, propping Optimus upright. “Energon levels at thirty-five percent as you requested.”  
  
“Good.” Megatron hooked a hand on Optimus' chestplate and yanked him from the berth.  
  
Optimus staggered, struggling to maintain his balance. Newly replaced joints scraped together, uncomfortable. His processor spun.  
  
“We wouldn't want to keep his fans waiting,” Megatron said.  
  
“Fans,” Optimus repeated, the dread in his tanks twisting into a discomfiting knot. The urge to purge crawled up his intake.  
  
Megatron grabbed him by the shoulders, thumbs digging in between armor plates, pressing down on cables. His gaze raked Optimus from helm to pede, approving or disapproving, Optimus couldn't say which.  
  
“A leader shouldn't be so selfish,” Megatron said, his smile shifting to a leer. “A leader should share the wealth.” One hand dragged down Optimus' front and cupped his interface panel, giving it a squeeze. “Isn't that right?”  
  
Optimus made a strangled noise, lifting a hand to swat at Megatron, but everything felt as if it were in slow-motion. He felt sluggish and restrained, but also... hot? Optimus shook, his internals twisting into themselves, and a flush of random heat spread through his frame.  
  
“What... what did you do to me?” He swayed, optics cycling slowly in and out.  
  
Megatron removed his hand from Optimus' plating, and clapped it on Optimus' shoulder. “It's called incentive, Prime.”  
  
The warlord's jovial mood was more than a little unsettling. Megatron was radiating heat, which only added to the warmth Optimus felt. Even as his plating flared and his vents kicked on, Optimus received no overheating warnings.  
  
His processor spun. Optimus pressed a hand to his helm, rebooting his exterior sensor suites in an attempt to calm the disarray. His tanks flipped again.  
  
“I want a show,” Megatron continued.  
  
He stepped closer, his knee nudging between Optimus' thighs and pressing hard on his array. His hand moved to Optimus' aft. He got a handful and squeezed, pulling Optimus tight against his frame.  
  
“You drugged me?” The dawning realization filled him with disgust as a system scan reported the presence of alien code, an executable program that would purge as soon as it had run its course.  
  
In other words, a virus. Megatron couldn't permanently alter Optimus' core coding, but apparently the matrix provided no protection against temporary viruses.  
  
To Optimus' growing horror, his interface systems came online with an audible whirr. His hips rocked forward, against Megatron's knee. His valve cycled into readiness, the first trickles of lubricant slicking the mesh walls. His spike stirred, twitching in his housing.  
  
Megatron chuckled and grasped his jaw, tilting his helm up to nip at Optimus' intake. Optimus' fingers twitched, arms bewitched by a languor that left him unable to do anything but push weakly at Megatron's chestplate.  
  
“As I said,” Megatron purred, “incentive.” He ground a steady pressure against Optimus' panel.  
  
A moan escaped Optimus' mouth, a full-frame shudder rippling through him. His panels twitched, more lubricant filling his valve.  
  
“I am almost tempted to take you now, as receptive as you are,” Megatron continued, crushing Optimus against him, Megatron's frame hot and vibrating with lust. “But I promised my soldiers a show.”  
  
Optimus offlined his optics, the dizziness getting worse.  
  
“I hate to interrupt, Lord Megatron,” Scrapper said and Optimus startled. He'd completely forgotten the Construction was there. “But if you do intend to put the Prime on display, it is approaching the time you set.”  
  
“You do make a valid point, Scrapper.” Megatron rocked his frame against Optimus' once more before withdrawing, his free hand gesturing to Scrapper. “The leash.”  
  
Optimus stood there, shaking, as Megatron attached the lead to his collar. His knees wobbled. His internal temperature soared and then held steady, not tripping into the dangerous realm, but hovering just below it.  
  
“I expect to see you there,” Megatron said, his vocals sounding distant to Optimus.  
  
Scrapper might have said something in return, but Optimus didn't hear it. Or if he did, his processor couldn't translate it. The majority of his focus was on the insidious virus, on keeping his hands fisted at his side so that he didn't reach down and paw at his own panel. His spike further thickened, pressing at his panel.  
  
Movement helped.  
  
Megatron tugged and Optimus followed like the pet he was, stumbling after Megatron as they exited the medcenter and headed toward the arena. Optimus had seen it from afar during the first tour of the reconstructed city, but it seemed to loom even larger and more imposing now that they headed toward it.  
  
By the time they entered the main doors, Optimus heard the crowd long before he saw it. Every Decepticon on Cybertron must be present for there to be so much noise. The stomping of pedes. The clamor of shouting and conversation. They passed more than a few leering Decepticons, though no one was brave enough to try and cop a feel.  
  
Megatron likely wouldn't have stopped them. If they weren't expected somewhere, he probably would have told Optimus to drop to his knees, to service the Decepticon as Autobots were meant to do and Optimus would have refused. Then there would have been pain and in the end, Optimus would find himself where he hadn't wanted to be, more Decepticon spill on his glossa and in his valve.  
  
He shuddered.  
  
His interfacing systems didn't mind the mental image. They offered more vivid ideas, and he felt the lubricant in his valve thicken and gather behind his panel. His calipers cycled with restless need. His spike throbbed within the confines of its housing. The pings to open, to spread his legs, grew more urgent.  
  
These, too, he ignored and dismissed.  
  
The noise only got worse as they entered a short corridor and emerged through a door into the arena center. This had obviously been modeled after a gladiatorial arena, hearkening back to Megatron's origins. The irony was not lost on Optimus.  
  
Optimus' befuddled senses quailed at the onslaught of noise. Worse were the vibrations the cacophony caused. They traveled through the atmosphere and the floor, rattling up through his pedes and into his frame, making his interface system stand up and take notice. His engine weakly revved as his spike again demanded to be released.  
  
The noise of the crowd turned into an outright roar once it saw Megatron. Optimus lifted his gaze and all he could see was a sea of faces, the gleam of red optics with the occasional blue or gold shade intermingled, and more purple badges than he could count. There were so many Decepticons, far more than Optimus could have ever expected. At least several hundred.  
  
Where had they all come from?  
  
Some of the dizziness eased. Optimus straightened as a bit of his strength returned as well. The heat remained, as did the unrelenting urge to interface, but he could at least stand on his own two pedes without swaying. Perhaps the fatigue had only been a result of the sedatives the Constructicon had given him.  
  
“My fellow Decepticons!” Megatron held up his hands for attention as they stood in the center of the arena. Doing so jerked Optimus upright, the pull on the collar tight against his intake. “Never let it be said that I am not a generous leader.”  
  
The cheering quieted but not enough to ease the ache on Optimus' audials. Nevertheless the Decepticons seemed able to hear their leader just fine.  
  
“If I could, I would allow each and every one of you down here to partake in the spoils of our victory.” Megatron grinned and made grand gestures, each one jerking on Optimus' lead, forcing him to move in response. “But there is not an Autobot who would survive that much attention, I don't think. Not even this one.”  
  
Megatron chuckled darkly, provoking a low tremor of laughter from his watching soldiers. The anticipation in the arena was palpable. It prickled along the edge of Optimus' waning energy field.  
  
“There are rumors of rewards and I stand here before you today, my Decepticons, to confirm those rumors. If this performance inspires then remember, any Decepticon who brings me a living Autobot may be permitted to keep that Autobot.”  
  
Optimus whipped his gaze toward Megatron, anger and revulsion tearing through him. Handing out his Autobots like chattel! How dare he! Megatron had made murmur of this a few days priod, but to come directly out and say it? Was there nothing Megatron wouldn't do?  
  
To the Decepticons, it was an announcement to celebrate. The shouting would have caused a minor quake on Earth. As it was, the foundation shook and Optimus' interface pinged another demand for relief. He ignored it.  
  
“Rest assured that while I cannot allow each and every one of you into the arena today, I have suitable candidates who have volunteered to provide entertainment. Each of these Decepticons were pivotal in our victory over the Autobots and they deserve this privilege and this gift.”  
  
Megatron turned toward Optimus, his grin so broad as to be frightening. He must have sharpened and polished his denta for precisely this occasion. Megatron coiled the lead around his wrist and gripped Optimus' jaw with his free hand.  
  
“Does that anger you, Prime?” he asked with false concern. His vocals were quieter, meant for Optimus' audials alone. “Do you feel the urge to rip out my spark yet?”  
  
Optimus didn't dignify him with an answer.  
  
“Maybe you'll change your mind when you see who I have in store for you.”  
  
Megatron released his jaw and unhooked the leash from Optimus' collar. He tucked the lead into a subspace pocket and turned back around, showing Optimus his back.  
  
He could attack. He could humiliate Megatron in front of this audience. He could rebel, cause damage, perhaps receive a beating in return.  
  
And then he heard the roar of multiple thrusters.  
  
Optimus looked up to see four Decepticons entering the arena from the open roof, two in their flight-modes and the others in root-mode but engaging their anti-grav thrusters. They entered the arena to the crowd's celebration and landed with strut-jarring thumps in a circle around Optimus and Megatron. All four, save one, easily outmassed Optimus.  
  
Optimus worked his intake. He counted. Of those present, he recognized several faces, a couple of whom he had hoped to never encounter again.  
  
Astrotrain and Blitzwing grinned at him, licking their lips, no doubt eager for a second chance at bending Optimus beneath them.  
  
Overlord, too, was here. Larger even than the triple-changers. Was it Optimus' anxiety making Overlord seem much larger? Or perhaps it was because of his reputation as one of Megatron's super soldiers.  
  
Overlord had been the one to finish off Omega Supreme. The Decepticons as a whole had helped bring Omega Supreme down, but it was Overlord who fought Omega back to the ground. It was Overlord who pummeled Omega into scrap. And it was Overload who peeled back the armor around Omega's spark chamber and fired several shots.  
  
Motormaster, too, was present, clearly still smarting over the fact he didn't have a slave of his own. Or if he did, Optimus had not heard. Megatron had not bragged about capturing any more Autobots of which Optimus was grateful.  
  
Megatron had left him unbound. Optimus knew that wasn't a mercy. He, like all the other Decepticons, wanted Optimus to fight back and wanted to watch him fail. It wasn't an opportunity for escape. It was a chance to point and laugh.  
  
He had no weapons. He didn't have his t-cog. He was barely fueled. His engine had been throttled. There was no defense against Overlord. He stood a chance against Motormaster and perhaps the triple-changers separately, but not all four at once.  
  
He doubted any of them were skilled at taking turns.  
  
He could barely stand. The heat was wreaking havoc on his stabilizing gyros. Focusing was out of the question. His knees wobbled. His spike pinged for release. His spark felt engorged and hungry.  
  
There was a part of him mere seconds away from dropping to the ground, spreading his legs, and begging. Anything to cleanse his frame of this unrelenting need.  
  
He locked down the urge, buried it deep. Perhaps this was why Hound had not struggled so hard or for too long. Perhaps his frame had taken the choice from his processor.  
  
Optimus cycled a slow ventilation. Megatron had not yet given the signal to start. But it was coming.  
  
Hound had survived this. So would he.  
  
Megatron would not break him, Optimus vowed.  
  
But he was going to come damn close.  
  
“And now,” Megatron shouted, “let the games begin!”  
  


INTERLUDE

  
  
The ping at his quarters was unexpected. There were few if any who would visit Soundwave, and of those few, none would approach his personal quarters at this time. He paused in the midst of cleaning Buzzsaw's seams, sending a querying ping to his cassettes.  
  
None of them expected a visitor either. He accessed his external cameras and his optical band flickered. Buzzsaw took off from his lap with a squawk of distrustful confusion. Laserbeak didn't stir from her recharge in Soundwave's dock.  
  
“What the fraggity frag does he want?” Frenzy sneered, bristling on a nearby couch. Next to him, Rumble jerked out of recharge.  
  
“Wha? What did I miss?”  
  
Soundwave waved a hand to silence them and rose to his pedes. It wouldn't do to keep his visitor waiting. He sent the command for the door to open and waited within sight of it, which had the added benefit of blocking further entrance into his quarters, a necessary precaution considering that Starscream was now striding inside.  
  
“About time,” he huffed.  
  
Soundwave tilted his helm, frame angled in a defensive posture but his hands hanging loose at his sides. “Reason for visit?”  
  
“Can't a mech swing by to pay an old friend a visit?” Starscream asked with a dismissive wink. He leaned past Soundwave, openly ogling Soundwave's habsuite. “Cozy place you got here. It's kind of infested though.”  
  
“Hey!” Rumble bristled and Frenzy beside him.  
  
Soundwave projected calm. It was in Starscream's nature to be contentious. They could not have expected anything less.  
  
“State purpose,” he repeated.  
  
Starscream ex-vented a long, aggrieved sigh. “We need to talk.”  
  
“Yeah, right. Since when do ya have somethin' to talk about with us?” Rumble demanded, popping up from the couch, armor bristling.  
  
Frenzy hopped up beside him, jaw stubbornly set.  
  
That this would occur an orn after Frenzy's visit to Optimus Prime was most unsettling. Soundwave had covered their tracks well, and was certain neither Frenzy, nor Ravage, had been spotted. Nor had the conversation been recorded.  
  
But it was still an eerie coincidence.  
  
“Quiet,” Soundwave said to them and he returned his attention to Starscream. He drew heavily on a well of patience. “Cassettes not wrong.”  
  
Starscream scowled. “You don't trust me, I get it. We're not friends, I get that, too. But we have a lot in common, Soundwave. Our dear master, chief among them.”  
  
There was something in the emphasis he laced into the glyphs that resonated with Soundwave. He stared at Starscream for a longer moment before angling himself to the side, granting Starscream entrance without another word.  
  
“Thank you,” Starscream said and if his polite tones weren't a novelty, the way he slipped into Soundwave's suite without badgering his way inside certainly was one.  
  
Then again, Starscream wanted something. He was well known for behaving very sweetly when he had a goal. Case in point: the current Decepticon victory. Soundwave wondered how hard Starscream had to swallow his pride and put on a meek front to get Megatron to listen to him.  
  
Soundwave let the door close behind Starscream and activated the privacy shielding he'd wired around his quarters. He'd get a ping if someone tried to contact him, but no one would be able to overhear.  
  
Starscream stood in the middle of the room and turned in a low circle as though taking in the sights. He eyed Frenzy and Rumble before dismissing them, wings twitching in minute flicks. He was agitated, Soundwave realized, and while agitation for Starscream wasn't new, this didn't seem to have an origin in being thwarted by Megatron.  
  
After all, Starscream had been the perfect second in command for the past year. Ever since his plan had helped Megatron defeat the Autobots, reclaim Cybertron, and raze Earth to cinders.  
  
“Frenzy, Rumble, return,” Soundwave commanded. He didn't want their commentary to interrupt Starscream or send the volatile Seeker off on one of his rants. He wanted answers, not to hassle Starscream.  
  
The twins whined and harrumphed, but obediently folded into cassette mode, slotting beside their brother and sisters.  
  
“You didn't have to stow them away,” Starscream said, one lip curled with amusement. “I wasn't going to eat them.”  
  
Soundwave inclined his helm. “State purpose for visit.”  
  
“Primus, Soundwave. Are you ever a broken record.” Starscream sighed and shook his helm. He planted his hands on his hips. “Fine. You. Me. We have a problem. Well, Cybertron has a problem and I thought the Autobots would take care of it for me, but Optimus Prime was too soft-sparked and now look where he is.”  
  
Soundwave absorbed the rather cluttered statement, picking apart the details. “Starscream wanted Autobot victory?”  
  
The Seeker waved a dismissing hand. “No. But I did want Megatron dead and the only way to make sure the Decepticons didn't completely revolt was to let the Autobots do it.” He huffed and crossed his arms over his chestplate. “That failed.”  
  
“Purpose of plan?”  
  
“We were starving. The war had to end. Even if meant giving Megatron the victory.” Starscream shrugged, but it wasn't as dismissive as he thought it was. Something like guilt reflected in the Seeker's expression. “Megatron's lunar. Always has been. But how was I supposed to know he'd do this?” Another wave of his hand, encompassing all that was beyond Soundwave's quarters.  
  
So, Starscream was also disturbed by Megatron's treatment of the Autobot soldiers. It was one thing, Soundwave reasoned, to fight a war and win it. To imprison or execute the defeated army's leaders was also expected. But as for the rest? There were few enough Cybertronians as it was! All Megatron was doing was further seeding resentment, making it impossible to function outside the war.  
  
Megatron clung to the war. Soundwave was tired of it. He wanted to live beyond it. But he couldn't, because Megatron wasn't interested in rebuilding Cybertron or developing a stable economy. He wanted industrial plants to create more weapons, to build a greater army. Cybertron was his, now he wanted the rest of the universe.  
  
Soundwave's weight shifted. Starscream had taken a big risk coming here, revealing this to someone considered to be Megatron's most loyal soldiers. If one didn't count Shockwave.  
  
“Query,” Soundwave said, staring at Starscream. “Purpose in coming here?”  
  
Starscream tilted his helm, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “Because I did a little digging after I noticed you didn't have a slave of your own. And what I found led me to believe that you would find this as distasteful as I do.” His wings flicked before settling against his back. “Don't get me wrong. I have little love for the Autobots. I'd have been fine if Megatron executed every last one of them. But I can't rule a Cybertron without Cybertronians living on it, and I'm tired of only being a soldier.”  
  
A sentiment Soundwave could appreciate. Though he wondered if the prospect of serving under Starscream was any better than what serving under Megatron had become. He did not like Starscream, despite their current alignment of opinion. Soundwave did not think he would ever like Starscream.  
  
He supposed he could have a worse ally. Because if Megatron got wind of this, Soundwave could point fingers at Starscream and no one would be surprised. He could protect his cassettes and find another way.  
  
It was a start.  
  
Soundwave fully disengaged his defense protocols. “Understood,” he said, and he gestured Starscream toward a chair. “Explain plan.”  
  
Starscream smirked, smug to his very spark. “I knew you'd see things my way.”  
  


0o0o0

  
  
All of Cybertron was buzzing with the news.  
  
Onslaught sent Bluestreak to his room and ordered him to recharge. There was no need for him to witness Megatron's newest show. He didn't, for one second, think that the gunner was too weak-minded to handle it. But he'd gotten Bluestreak to the point where the mech no longer flinched away from him.  
  
He didn't want a relapse.  
  
To be frank, Onslaught didn't want to watch either. None of what Megatron did in that arena could be called entertainment.  
  
How long, he wondered, until Megatron ran out of Autobots to torment? Who would he turn to next? Starscream, for sure.  
  
The obedience code crawled through his processor as though it had physical weight. Onslaught just barely stopped himself from scratching at his helm as though that could ease the itch.  
  
He would be expected to put in an appearance. He would have to feign his interest, cheer along with the others. He could not give the impression that he disagreed with Megatron. Though there was little worse that Megatron could do to him.  
  
Unless, of course, he decided that the threat of the Combaticons outweighed their worth as Bruticus and did unto them as he had the Autobots he allowed to live. There were things worse than death.  
  
Onslaught refused to become a berth pet again.  
  
He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the dark monitor. There was no point in turning it on. There was only one channel on broadcast and Onslaught had no interest in bringing that display into their home.  
  
There was a tap along the gestalt bond. He turned to find Vortex shuffling into the main room, plating lax, rotors drifting, and his field speaking of fatigue. Swindle came in after him, all but bouncing on his pedes, his optics lit up with the glee of success.  
  
“I take it all went well?” Onslaught asked.  
  
“Better than we could have hoped,” Swindle declared. “Our lord and master has his shipment in hand and we, dear leader, have ours.”  
  
“Where's Blast Off?”  
  
“Rinsing,” Vortex answered and he flopped down on the couch, rooting around for the remote. “Sand. So much sand.”  
  
Swindle cringed. “Could use a little rinsing myself.” He patted his shoulder, flakes of grit falling out. Onslaught could hear it trickling through the salesmech's internals. “Where's Brawl?”  
  
“I have the remote,” Onslaught said. “You won't want to watch what Megatron is showing tonight. Brawl is gathering intel.”  
  
Which was actually a task that suited Brawl. He'd take up a position in the corner of one of the many dive bars located around Cybertron, and he'd listen. Mechs would talk to him, too, because he had the reputation as the big dumb brute. As a result, not only was he Megatron's favorite of their team, but he was well-liked throughout the Decepticons in general.  
  
Brawl was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a lot smarter than he let on. And Onslaught used that to his advantage.  
  
Vortex's engine gave a tired rev. He shifted in the couch to look at Onslaught, expression hidden behind mask and visor. “Another Autobot.”  
  
“Optimus Prime.”  
  
Both of his subordinates sucked in a sharp intake.  
  
“Whoa,” Swindle said, and he backpedaled. “His own personal pet? What did Prime do to justify that punishment?”  
  
Onslaught's tank churned. “He suffers for the actions of one of his own. The storage at Protihex was raided. One of the Autobot survivors, we suspect.”  
  
Vortex thumbed his chin, visor dimming. “It was Jazz.”  
  
“You know?”  
  
“Who else would it be? Yeah, the Autobots are good at hiding, but only spec ops would be so bold as to actually strike at Megatron.” Vortex rolled his shoulders in a shrug, rotors lazily turning. “So if not Jazz, then on his orders. Had to be.”  
  
Swindle gave Onslaught a shrewd look. “You thinking of making contact?” He immediately winced, optics dimming as he clutched at his helm.  
  
“I'm thinking that capturing the Autobot third in command would make Megatron proud of us,” Onslaught was quick to growl as Swindle's seemingly innocent statement caused the behavioral coding to stand up and take notice.  
  
They all froze, even Vortex, ventilating slow and careful. Onslaught did not know what methods Swindle and Vortex used to calm the vicious rake of admonition, the abrupt and immediate reminder of their place.  
  
Onslaught chanted to himself.  
  
_I live to obey. I am loyal to Megatron. I am his humble servant. Everything I do, I do for his glory._  
  
Over and over and over again, until the pain eased, the clamp around his intake softened, his tanks stopped clenching, and his spark beat to a normal rhythm.  
  
Sadly, of all of them, Brawl was the best at mastering his thoughts. He rarely, if ever, suffered the brunt of the coding. Though that did not make him any less ready to be free of it.  
  
“We should investigate,” Vortex suggested, his visor gradually brightening as he pushed back up from the couch, leaving a rain of sand behind.  
  
Onslaught shook his head. “Not without Lord Megatron's command. He may have another task for us. And that will have to wait until tomorrow. He's... otherwise occupied.” It was difficult to keep the distaste from his vocals, even more difficult still to justify his distaste to the coding.  
  
“In that case, I'm due a trip to the washracks.” Swindle planted a smile on his face as he stretched his arms over his head, grit audibly grinding through his gears. “I'll transmit my report, but I'm sure our lord and master will want to see us in person later.” He wriggled his fingers and excused himself from the room.  
  
“I guess that means I'm stuck with the squirt,” Vortex grumbled, picking at his seams where more sand flaked out. “He in his room?”  
  
Onslaught inclined his helm. “And he'll stay there.” He hooked a finger in his subordinate's chestplate, dragging Vortex closer. “What are you to remember?”  
  
The light behind Vortex's visor shifted, annoyance huffing from his vents. “Not even if he asks,” he recited, though the wriggle of his rotors reflected his exasperation. “Not like I would anyway. You know I ain't into that, Ons.”  
  
“I am aware of your proclivities, Vortex. But I am also aware of your preferences.” He tilted his helm downward, pinning Vortex with his gaze. “Court him all you like later.” He was vague on purpose, unable to fully delineate what he meant by later.  
  
Vortex was a smart mech, no matter what anyone else said about him. He understood.  
  
The rotary huffed another aggrieved sigh. “Not even if he asks,” he repeated again. “Sir, yes, sir.”  
  
Onslaught patted him on the chestplate. “I'll be back as soon as I can leave without insulting anyone.”  
  
Vortex snorted.  
  
He knew, just as Onslaught did, that Onslaught would be there for the entirety of Megatron's show.  
  
He was expected to enjoy the abasement of an Autobot just like everyone else.  
  


***


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU HAVE NOT BEEN PAYING ATTENTION TO MY WARNINGS, FOR THE LOVE OF PRIMUS DO IT THIS TIME. This chapter is one of the ones I consider to be the most brutal (this one and one other) and there's nothing pretty about it. It is READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. It is full of triggery content. HEED THE WARNINGS. I can't stress that enough.
> 
> Universe: G1/IDW AU  
> Characters this chapter: Motormaster/Optimus, Astrotrain/Optimus, Blitzwing/Optimus, Overlord, Optimus  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: aphrodisiac in the form of a virus, forced overloads, fingering, fisting, double penetration orally, double penetration in the valve, data cables/tentacles, gangbang, humiliation, forced oral, facesitting, handjobs  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Blood On My Name," The Brothers Bright

There was no gong or bell or announcement. Apparently the cue to start was the sight of Megatron powering on his anti-gravs and pushing out of the center of the arena, taking a position somewhere he could observe.   
  
It was all the warning Optimus had before his opponents pounced.   
  
Optimus fought. He expected that was what they wanted of him when he managed to land a blow and no one punished him by activating the shock collar. But Motormaster was barely fazed by the uppercut to the jaw. He wiped energon from his lipplate and dove back into the fray.   
  
Just like poor Hound, it was a painfully short and pathetic resistance. Optimus only lasted as long as it took for someone to grab his arm. A quick glance identified Overlord, his grip as unyielding as duryllium shackles.   
  
Optimus kicked out, managing to dent Blitzwing's upper thigh. He growled and he twisted and he blocked out the sound of their taunts and their laughter and the thunderous crowd. It was all noise.  
  
Overload yanked; Optimus stumbled. His shoulder wrenched with a blaze of fiery pain and he cried out, numbness settling in around the agony. Someone laughed. It didn't matter who. Overload let him go with a push.   
  
Optimus almost tripped over his own pedes. The world spun dizzily. Heat throbbed through his lines. His valve clenched down, drooling lubricant.   
  
Someone smacked him on the aft, the sharp blow sending him staggering. His plating stung. The audience roared and the humiliation burned. No more so then when his panel popped, spike springing free, unwilling to be contained. It bobbed between his legs, dripping pre-fluid to the arena floor. It was only a matter of time before his valve followed suit.   
  
A gray-purple arm grabbed him, hauling him against a chassis of the same shade. Optimus squirmed, fighting to pull free. A hand wrapped around his spike, giving him a long, squeezing pull. He shouted, not entirely pain, and jabbed an elbow backward. It was a lucky blow, striking at just the right angle to poke a seam.   
  
His attacker threw him to the ground and Optimus rolled at the last minute, lest he crush his spike. His valve panel popped as he scrambled to hands and knees, lubricant slicking down his thighs. He was surrounded by a sea of legs and grasping hands.   
  
Someone grabbed his left pede, jerking his knee out from under him. Optimus gasped as he hit the ground face first, only the angle keeping him from smacking his spike into it as well. His fingers scraped at the ground, but there was nothing to grab.   
  
Another hand wrapped around his right ankle. Did it belong to the same mech? He couldn't tell. Everything was a blur, a whirl of noise, and a pained sound escaped him. His engine ground, gears straining, vents gasping for air. He was hot, burning all over, and the cool brush of air over his exposed components sent tingling through his lines.   
  
Someone stepped on his left hand. The pede was dark gray. Optimus gritted his teeth, looking up to see Motormaster looming over him, optics glowing with lust.   
  
There was a tickle, a brush of touch, and then two fingers jammed into Optimus' valve. Or at least it felt like fingers. They wriggled and curled, stroking blindly over his hidden nodes and to his horror, Optimus abruptly overloaded. The pleasure came too quick to be called that. The overload rolled over him and echoed through his components. He turned his helm toward the ground, burying his face behind the curve of his arm.   
  
Optimus clenched on the fingers, gushed more lubricant, and still the virus buzzed through him. The overload seemed to give it strength. His spike throbbed. Hunger yawed through his valve, calipers clutching at the fingers, trying to drag them deeper.   
  
Optimus shook, barely registering the pain of his hand being slowly ground into the unforgiving floor by Motormaster's mass.   
  
“What the frag was that?” Astrotrain. Had to be Astrotrain.   
  
“Did he just fragging overload?” Blitzwing. The two idiots who even if they shared a processor, still wouldn't qualify as smart enough to be one mech.   
  
“He's dripping for us.” Astrotrain chortled and two fingers joined the ones already in Optimus' valve, pumping into him with glee. “I get to have him first this time.”   
  
“What? How's that fair?”   
  
“Shut up, both of you!”   
  
Optimus froze. It was the voice most unfamiliar to him, but who could mistake that deep bass, that slick tone? Or the unrelenting energy field that poured down over Optimus, pinning him down as effectively as a heavy pede.   
  
“If anyone goes first, it's me,” Overlord declared and who among them would argue otherwise? Who would go pede to pede against Megatron's super soldier just for a chance at a valve they'd had before?  
  
None of them.   
  
They grumbled, they whined, but they didn't protest.   
  
“Fine,” Blitzwing said sulkily. “But Astro's next. Here.” Optimus felt them jerk his leg, as though offering it to Overlord.   
  
Traded. Handed over like a piece of equipment. Optimus was glad he couldn't look behind him, couldn't see the three Decepticons staring at his bared, dripping valve.   
  
Armor scraped against his thighs, forcing his legs wider. His hip joints strained, pushed to their limit. But Overlord didn't take the offered pede. Instead he palmed Optimus' aft and then curled his fingers around Optimus' hip. His thumbs drummed an odd rhythm over Optimus' aft plating.   
  
“Nah,” Overlord said, his array knocking against Optimus' bare valve with a chime of metal on metal. “Hold him for me.”   
  
Astrotrain muttered something subvocally, but they both obeyed, pulling Optimus' legs out and apart, leaving room for Overlord between them. He heard the massive mech's panel slide open and then something blunt and thick nosed against his valve. He wasn't nearly stretched enough to receive it, but there was a part of him thanking Primus that he was dripping lubricant.   
  
Optimus gritted his denta, curled his unpinned hand into a fist, and buried his face into an arm. He disabled his vocalizer. His valve twitched in anticipation. His tanks flipped with disgust but his array was blazing hot with need. It was all he could do to keep himself from trying to push back toward Overlord's spike.   
  
Could something that big even count as a spike?  
  
He didn't know. He didn't care to know.   
  
Overlord's hands tightened on Optimus' hips. He pulled, tugging Optimus toward his spike rather than thrusting forward. He pushed incrementally, forcing himself into Optimus inch by grudging inch as though savoring the strain of calipers stretched so wide they could barely twitch around him.   
  
Optimus' ventilations stalled. If his vocalizer had been activated, surely he would have screamed. His engine revved into a higher pitch.   
  
Oh, Primus. So full. Stretching, stretching, a burn that should have been pain and it was, dear Primus, it was. The virus translated it as pleasure, too. Optimus swallowed down a moan that his vocalizer couldn't release anyway. He twitched and shook, spike dripping endlessly and then Overlord nudged against his ceiling node, grinding ever so slowly against it and Optimus overloaded again, his entire frame spasming.   
  
His valve squeezed Overlord's spike, aching from the attempt to do so, and lubricant gushed into all the nooks and crannies left behind. He felt plugged and none of it could escape.   
  
Overlord chuckled, pulling out by a fraction only to rock back in again. “I always knew you wanted me, Prime,” he said. “One little push and I got an overload out of you. How many more can I get?”  
  
“Hey,” Motormaster said, his weight suddenly vanishing from Optimus' hand. “Why are you getting all the fun?”   
  
“Stay down there on your end,” Overlord said with another grinding push into Optimus' valve, his pace increasing, every drag of his spike raking against the oversensitized nodes in Optimus' valve. “No one said you can't make use of it.”  
  
Motormaster grumbled something and then Optimus felt a hand on the back of his helm, lifting it. Optimus struggled to push himself to his elbows, ease the strain, as he turned his helm to look up at Motormaster. Two fingers plunged into his mouth before he could see them coming, scraping around over his glossa and denta.   
  
“Huh,” Motormaster said, shoving them deeper, until they pushed at the back of his intake. Optimus' intake seized. “It'll do.”   
  
He let go and Optimus dropped, intake spasming as his vents stuttered. He coughed, trying to ease the feeling of invasion. Overlord chose that moment to shove into him, a harder thrust than he'd used before. Optimus' overrides abruptly cut off and he shouted, hands scrabbling as the thrust shoved him across the ground.   
  
“Hey!” Motormaster said, outraged as he dropped to the ground in front of Optimus, mechhandling Optimus' helm toward his lap.   
  
Overlord chuckled, his hands flexing on Optimus' aft. “Shut up. No one cares.”   
  
Optimus was forced to brace himself on his elbows. Motormaster shoved his face against his dark gray panel, rubbing his lips and olfactory sensor against the steaming hot plate. Motormaster stank of charge and lust, lubricant seeping out of the seams around his units, but he hadn't released himself yet.   
  
“Fragging Overlord,” Motormaster muttered, his hand releasing Optimus' helm only to swat across the back of it. The blow made Optimus gasp, his optics resetting.   
  
“Make it good, Prime,” Motormaster warned, louder this time. “If you fragging bite me, you won't have any denta left to do it again. Got me?” In terms of threats, it was a poor one.   
  
Optimus, as much brief revenge it would bring him, would not bite Motormaster. Bad enough he would have to taste the mech's spill, the last thing he wanted was the flavor of all his internal fluids as well.   
  
Not that Motormaster gave him much time to agree or disagree. Nor did he seem to want it. He rubbed Optimus' face on his panel again and then his spike sprang free.   
  
Motormaster laughed as he pulled Optimus' face back, took his spike in his free hand, and rubbed the tip of it all over Optimus' face. Over his lips, his cheek ridges, his forehelm, he left smears of pre-fluid behind.   
  
“That's a good look on you, Prime,” he said.   
  
Optimus didn't spare the energy to glare. He didn't have it. Not with Overlord taking him in increasingly forceful thrusts. His valve was raw and hungry, the need coiling inside of him. His spike throbbed, seeping pre-fluid, to the point that the slightest touch would probably set him off.   
  
It all blended together, until Optimus couldn't separate one humiliation from the other. Even the roar of the watching crowd had become a background noise. He clenched his fists, tried to ignore his racing engine, and the lubricant dripping down his thighs.   
  
“Hey!” Motormaster cuffed him across the helm, a light blow that made his audials ring. “Pay attention, Prime.”   
  
Endure, he told himself, and then Overlord shoved into him with a hard smack of metal on metal, his grip buckling Optimus' armor, and Optimus' frame betrayed him.   
  
He overloaded again, hard, his entire frame thrashing and clenching. Overlord laughed as Optimus shouted, legs jerking. Motormaster shoved into his mouth, his lust-hot spike forcing a searing path across Optimus' glossa. His intake seized, his vents coughed, and Overload said something, but Optimus couldn't hear it through the ringing in his audials.   
  
Not as Motormaster set a brutal pace, no sense of rhythm, just the mindless pursuit of overload. The ridged head of his spike slammed against the back of Optimus' intake, over and over, his hand forcing Optimus' helm against his pelvic plate. Overlord's rhythm was a counterpoint, a deep, forceful push against Optimus' clenching calipers that raked against every oversensitized node.   
  
His processor spun. Warnings danced across his internal display until they became a blur of orange and red, too quick for his attempts to dismiss them.   
  
“Come on, Prime!” Motormaster huffed, one hand on the back of his helm, the other gripping his shoulder, pulling Optimus' mouth on his spike. “Suck me – mmmnn – harder!” His spike poked the back of Optimus' intake with each thrust.   
  
They pulled and pushed him between them, as though he were nothing more than a toy for them to use. Optimus choked on Motormaster's spike and then he didn't because Overlord ground against his ceiling node and made him thrash with pleasure. Over and over and over.   
  
Motormaster growled as he overloaded, his powerful engine vibrating hard, buzzing against Optimus' face. He choked, one hand flailing in an aborted attempt to push Motormaster off, vents fully open in desperation. He felt the heated splatter of Motormaster going down his intake, coating the sides, and slithering into his tanks. His internals jostled, threatening to purge.   
  
Overlord laughed, jabbed hard against the ceiling node of Optimus' valve, and pulled out. Optimus' valve twitched, yawing empty and drenched. He heard the slick sounds of fingers against metal before he felt the splatter of Overlord's spill against his aft and valve, trickling inside to join the slick of his lubricant.   
  
“Drop him,” Overlord said and Optimus grunted as Blitzwing and Astrotrain obeyed, abruptly releasing Optimus' legs.   
  
His lower half smacked to the ground and he shouted as his spike pinged against it, thoroughly bruised.   
  
Motormaster put a hand to his face, shoving him away, tearing him off Motormaster's spike.   
  
Optimus rolled away from all of them, struggling to get to hands and knees. Dizzy, his intakes seized and he coughed. Globs of transfluid came up from his filters. He spat it to the ground, the sour taste thick on his glossa. His valve ached. He could feel the rush of air displacement across it, his components wet and twitching.   
  
Stand up, he tried to tell himself, but nothing responded to him. His legs felt as though they couldn't support his weight. His arms wobbled. His vents rattled.   
  
Someone gripped his helm and shoved him face-first into the ground. Optimus pushed back against it, but didn't have the strength. A massive pede pinned him down by the back of his neck, grinding his face into the used transfluid. His internals rolled again.   
  
They grabbed his wrists, jerking his hands out from under him and Optimus flattened. They twisted his arms back, something in his right shoulder going pop as they pinned his wrists to the base of his backstrut.   
  
Pedes nudged between his legs, kicking them open. Hands gripped his hips, pulling his aft into the air. His thighs were further pushed apart and Optimus wheezed, the compression on his neck narrowing his airway. His secondary vents, already open to their maximum, struggled to compensate.   
  
Fingers shoved into his valve. Two maybe, he couldn't tell, couldn't see. They poked into him without mercy, prodding and rubbing against his lubricant slick sensors. A moan escaped Optimus before he could stop it, his hips bucking into the touches. The virus still buzzed through his circuits, spreading a burning heat that demanded satisfaction.   
  
His calipers clutched at the fingers that were nowhere close to enough. Not after Overlord. And more fingers joined the others. Four maybe, and then five.   
  
Someone laughed. He supposed it didn't matter who. His visual feed was a gray blur and he thought maybe it was Motormaster above him. Stepping on him. Maybe it was Overlord plunging his fingers into Optimus' valve, all lined up, like the broad plane of a sword. Maybe it was Blitzwing brutally fragging Optimus with his fingers and then removing them, leaving Optimus to think, for a moment, of relief.   
  
He didn't relax. He didn't cycle a ventilation. His calipers clenched. His thighs trembled and then he screamed, what else could he call it, when something shoved into his valve. Something sharp and irregular and notched and there was no way that was a spike. One of them had shoved their fist into him and they thought it was funny. They laughed as they forced it deeper and deeper, past protesting calipers.   
  
One or two snapped out of place, Optimus felt them go with sharp stabs of pain. Fire replaced the slow burn of pleasure. Fluid dripped from his valve and it wasn't all lubricant. Some of it was energon because armor wasn't smooth and Decepticons were too spiky and they'd cut his lining, scraped it raw.   
  
Worse still because that virus still translated it as pleasure. Still thought the pressure and friction against his sensor nodes was a glorious thing. Even as Optimus ground his denta against the pain, his frame shook in overload, valve clamping down as though trying to trap the fist and wrist and arm within him.   
  
They thought this hilarious, too.   
  
“A Prime serves his people,” Overlord said with a nasty tone. “And he's fragging good at it.”   
  
The pressure vanished from his neck. Optimus gasped in a breath, his intake flexing and the fist tore itself from his valve. He heard something snap, felt it deep within his array, and as his valve drew back together, the agony sent a whine through his engine.   
  
They still weren't done.   
  
They pulled him up by the wrists, dragging him to his knees. He felt something in his left shoulder snap, the joint pulled out of place. His left arm went limp, his hand numb.   
  
Astrotrain circled around to stand in front of Optimus, his frame a purple-gray blur that crouched down until they were almost at optic level. He smirked, holding up a hand, one covered in energon and lubricant, dripping to the ground. It had been Astrotrain. Not that the identity mattered.   
  
He shoved his hand toward Optimus' face. “You've made a mess, Prime,” he said, two fingers poking through the seam of Optimus' lips and into his mouth, hooking on his denta. “Clean it up.” Astrotrain's fingers stroked Optimus' glossa and he tasted his own lubricant, his own energon.   
  
The world spun. It was hard to focus. His optics kept zooming in and out and in and out. Swirls of color – crimson and gray and purple. Pulses of sound – the crowd still cheered and they were chanting something with words. More fingers in his mouth, sliding around, coating his glossa with his own fluids.   
  
Heat and presence at his back. A hand on his spike, fingers wrapping around it, squeezing. A raspy laugh in his vocalizer and a helm pressed against the side of his, false intimacy.   
  
“You're hard, Prime,” the voice said, glossa flicking Optimus' audial, dragging his attention back to the assault. “The frame knows best.”   
  
It's a virus! He couldn't shout even if he wanted to. His vocalizer clicked, failed to engage. Hook would have to fix it again. And again.   
  
“I want it.” Another voice, this one demanding. “Put him on his back.”   
  
“Fine, fine.”   
  
The world tilted. The fingers vanished from his mouth and Optimus' jaw ached. It hurt to try and close it, so it hung open by a fraction. His glossa poked at his denta, the internal structure of his mouth. Numerous little cuts stung.   
  
They laid him flat. He stared up at Cybertron's sky. It was dark. The floodlights cast odd spills on the arena floor. They were glaring. Made it hard to see the stars.   
  
His gaze rolled to the side. There was a glint of something. A sparkle of light against glass and was that... Reflector? Were they recording this?   
  
But of course they were, he thought with disgust. It was entertainment. It was defeat all over again, broadcast to the whole of Cybertron in case there should be any doubt what had become of the Autobots.   
  
Someone pinned his arms above his helm, his shoulder grating as it was forced to obey, despite no longer being seated. He barely whimpered. What was one pain on top of the rest?  
  
Weight settled across his pelvic array; his plating protested the additional mass. Optimus looked down. It was Astrotrain, a wicked smile on his face as he made himself comfortable, rubbing his panel up and down Optimus' dripping spike. It felt so good that it hurt. His spike had been given no attention and now it screamed for that lack.   
  
“Dunno,” Astrotrain said, pinching the tip of it. “Might be too small to get any use out of it.”   
  
Optimus couldn't see anything because Blitzwing planted himself on Optimus' chest, his array exposed, but it was his valve that he shoved toward Optimus' mouth. It dripped hot lubricant on Optimus' face.   
  
“Do a good job and I won't have Motormaster break your fingers,” Blitzwing grunted.   
  
He reached down to spread himself more open, rocking his valve against Optimus' lips. His hand prevented Optimus' helm from turning away, even pushing his face up against his exposed array. His valve folds were swollen and dark. His biolights were a dim crimson, pulsing with erratic excitement. Lubricant flowed freely, dripping onto Optimus' face.   
  
Astrotrain sank down on Optimus' spike with a little shudder, enveloping him in wet heat. Astrotrain was tighter, probably rarely used his valve. Optimus bucked up with a moan, the vibrations hitting Blitzwing's valve. It felt good. His spike had been aching for stimulation. The virus worked his magic. For all the pain, Astrotrain's valve was a relief.   
  
Blitzwing purred his pleasure and rubbed his valve rim over Optimus' lips. “Lick me,” he demanded.   
  
Optimus felt like he was supposed to disobey, but he didn't. He found his lips parting, his glossa emerging to tentatively lap at Blitzwing's anterior node. It was so large it probably qualified as a spike for a microbot. Optimus sucked on it and was rewarded with Blitzwing humping his face. Blitzwing shuddered, his plating visibly twitching.   
  
“Ah, that's good,” he moaned, fingers flexing on Optimus' face. He kept one hand on Optimus' helm, but now the other moved to his own spike, jerking himself furiously.   
  
Something tickled at Optimus' valve. He jerked in surprise because there was no way Motormaster or Overlord could get to it with Astrotrain atop him. And the smooth touch was not fingers, the probe felt far too tentative. There were two of them, sleek and wriggling, and they slithered into his valve, the top knobbed but the rest of the length unsegmented.   
  
Astrotrain was a shuttle.   
  
Realization dawned.   
  
Astrotrain had pushed his connectors into Optimus' valve. Skyfire'd had six of them, Optimus remembered. The bigger the shuttle, the more they had, Skyfire had said sheepishly. He hadn't often released them because the sight of them made the humans uncomfortable, and even a few Autobots who weren't used to being around space-faring shuttles squirmed at the sight.   
  
Astrotrain was smaller than Skyfire but – oh, Primus. Optimus groaned as a cable coiled around each of his legs, pulling them far apart, and their tips nosed into his valve, joining the other two. Narrower than Astrotrain's spike, they were still wide enough to cause an uncomfortable stretch for bruised and battered and bent calipers.   
  
A smaller one nudged at Optimus' anterior node, tiny manipulators buzzing against the sensitive nub. Optimus' hips bucked into the touch, the heat pulsing through his array picking up in rhythm. Pleasure wound through him, battling against the stabs of agony, until his processor was so confused Optimus didn't know how to classify the sensations.   
  
Blitzwing ground down against his face and Optimus had to focus on him again. He had to focus on stroking his glossa over that leaking valve, swallowing down the lubricant as it trickled into his mouth lest it clog up his filters. The faster Blitzwing overloaded, the faster he'd get off Optimus' face.   
  
The weight on his hands shifted, the grip on his wrist easing. Optimus' fingers twitched as something hot and smooth pushed between his hands.   
  
“Make yourself useful,” Motormaster grunted, manipulating Optimus' hands until they were wrapped around his spike in a loose grip, giving him something to thrust against.   
  
“Might as well,” Astrotrain said with a huffing laugh. “Since this down here pretty much isn't.” He punctuated his comment by dropping down hard on Optimus' spike, and then circling his hips.   
  
His cables jabbed into Optimus' valve, feelers seeking and finding the sensor nodes. The tiny ends latched on, sending wave after wave of prickling charge over them. Optimus moaned against Blitzwing's valve, his hips squirming. Pleasure coiled inside of him, tighter and tighter.   
  
All three of them moved – on him and in him and around him – too many limbs and directions to develop any sort of rhythm. Blitzwing grunted above him, his valve pulsing against Optimus' lips. He demanded in subvocal tones that Optimus lick him harder, suck on his node, put some fragging effort into it.   
  
Astrotrain bounced on his hips, leaving dents behind, his valve making an intermittent catch against Optimus' spikes. His cables pushed into Optimus' valve, filling in all the empty space until he felt stuffed full and there wasn't a part of his valve left untouched. The constant flicking against his anterior node made his legs jerk, heat peppering up and down his spinal strut.   
  
Motormaster's rutting against his hands was awkward and the most arrhythmic. He squeezed Optimus' wrists, straining the gears within, grunting like a predacon as he thrust into Optimus' forced grip.   
  
It was impossible to disassociate himself as much as he wanted to retreat into his frame and escape. The pain was too sharp, intermingled with the pleasure the virus gave him, and just when he thought he could bury himself in a rhythm, a fresh pain would startle him anew.   
  
He endured, helpless to it as Astrotrain ground down against him and was the first to overload, shuddering on Optimus' spike. His cables went rigid, spitting charge into his valve and across his nodes.   
  
Optimus shouted as he overloaded, lower frame helplessly bucking up into the valve clutching at him. Then it was gone because Astrotrain hauled to his pedes, dripping lubricant and transfluid, though his cables retracted much more slowly. They wriggled and writhed in Optimus' valve as they withdrew, leaving an aching feeling of emptiness behind.  
  
“Need some help, Blitz?”   
  
“This slagger isn't worth the ground he's layin' on,” Blitzwing replied. Two hands clutched Optimus' helm, holding him in place as Blitzwing ground down against him.   
  
He heard the slither of cables and Blitzwing's pleased moan, assuming Astrotrain wrapped them around Blitzwing's spike. Especially when Optimus felt the drip of his own lubricant against his face.   
  
Blitzwing's anterior node throbbed. His valve twitched and flexed, spilling charge and lubricant into Optimus' mouth. Little zaps stung his glossa, but it was still Motormaster who overloaded next, leaving a sticky mess on Optimus' hands as he rutted his way to completion.   
  
He didn't let go of Optimus' hands. He kept them pinned in place as Blitzwing danced on Optimus' mouth, growling more commands, more orders. For Optimus to frag him with his glossa. To suck and lick and try and look like he enjoyed it. Astrotrain kept nudging Optimus with a pede and there was the sound of both of them moaning as they kissed each other and that somehow made it all the more obscene.   
  
Finally, Blitzwing sat down hard, smothering Optimus with his array as he overloaded, grinding against his lips, valve pulsing. Optimus coughed, the lubricant flooding his intake and he honestly couldn't decide which was worse, the transfluid or the copious amounts of lubricant. He felt Blitzwing's transfluid splatter on his face, and then the wet splash of more spill on his abdomen.   
  
Cooling fans whirled and buzzed around him. Blitzwing vented heat down, singeing Optimus' already bruised face. Astrotrain hauled Blitzwing to his pedes and he staggered away.   
  
Optimus gasped for a clear ventilation, optics cycling, receiving a blurred image of four Decepticons surrounding him. He felt filthy, coated in fluids and dents, gears grinding, frame refusing to respond. His spike stood proud and eager, though liberally coated in Astrotrain's lubricant, and he didn't have the energy to be ashamed.   
  
“You're still hard, Prime,” Astrotrain said with a sneer and those cables slithered forward again They shoved back into his valve and wrapped around his spike.  
  
Optimus couldn't get away from them, his frame pinned down by the tensile metal. All he could do was shake and writhe as Astrotrain easily manipulated his pleasure, mercilessly attacking sensors and nodes and squeezing his spike. The fine manipulators of a smaller cable nosed at his spike tip, dipping down into his transfluid channel and Optimus writhed.  
  
Optimus' entire frame arched as he overloaded, transfluid spurting into the air and falling back to land against his frame. He shook, vents roaring, pleasure striping him raw. How many would it take before the program finished executed itself? He'd lost count of his overloads.   
  
Astrotrain released his spike and wiped his hand on Optimus' frame. He pushed to his pedes and kicked Optimus in the side before he withdraw. The blow was offhand, barely a blip in the blur of pain. Still, Optimus' spike did not retract.   
  
Optimus grabbed his injured arm with the other and lowered it, tucking it close against his frame. He tried to roll to his side, but the best he could manage was to close his legs, draw his knees up. He ached and he couldn't close his panels, they refused. He reset his optics and couldn't get anything more than dark shapes and static. He groaned, aching from helm to pede, covered in transfluid and energon and dirt and surely they were done with him. Surely they'd just leave him here, to shake in pain and humiliation.   
  
His spike was still eager, jutting between his legs, and no matter how many overrides Optmius tossed out, it refused to retract. The virus was insidious, had parked itself inside his processor and squatted in his pleasure center, and made itself home. He worried he might never be rid of it, that it might continue self-executing until he became nothing more than a pleasure drone.   
  
Someone picked him up and Optimus didn't have the energy to do anything more than lay there limply as they arranged his limbs. As he was positioned to straddle someone's lap, his backplate notched against someone's chestplate. A spike slid into his valve, too small to be Overlord, but that's all he could tell. His calipers twitched. The unbroken ones clutched at the spike, and charge once again started to climb.   
  
Optimus moaned, a sick sound, his helm lolling backward against his attacker's shoulder. His dislocated arm hung limply. The other gripped at the arm wound around his waist, desperate for something to ground himself.   
  
“He's too fragging loose,” the Decepticon grumbled and he guessed it was Motormaster. Their vocals all sounded the same now.   
  
“Hah. That's what happens when you've been fragged raw.”   
  
A dark shape stepped in front of them. Optimus couldn't tell who it was and it didn't matter. It really didn't. He only saw the Decepticon brand, bright and purple, which was all he needed to know. Then there was a hand on his chestplate, blunt fingers pushing against the seam between his windshields.   
  
Fright strobed Optimus' spark. He let go of the arm around his waist, trying to push away the invading hand against his chestplate.   
  
Not his spark. Anything but his spark.   
  
His hand was batted aside and then gripped, pinned at his backstrut. The spike in his valve kept up the slow, agonizing pace. It skipped and bumped against every damaged caliper, worsening the alignment.   
  
Those fingers got a better grip. Optimus spat a garbled protest as his chestplates resisted, as metal ground against metal and his torso was dragged forward.   
  
“Stop!”   
  
Optimus snapped back as the hand suddenly removed itself and the frame in front of him was shoved aside. He sagged back against Motormaster who stilled his motions, settling Optimus on his spike but not moving.   
  
“What the frag, Astrotrain?” Overlord snarled, and there was just enough menace in his tone that Optimus flinched.   
  
“The boss said no!”  
  
Megatron had stopped Barricade as well. Optimus wasn't so naive as to think it was because Megatron was protecting him.   
  
There was a moment of silence, filled with whirring cooling fans and the roaring crowd, before Overlord growled in disappointment.   
  
“Fine,” he snapped, and grabbed Optimus' jaw. “Open up, Prime,” he said, not that he gave Optimus a choice otherwise, the blunt tip of his spike shoving at Optimus' lips.   
  
He opened his mouth knowing Overlord would pry it open anyway, and his jaw hinge protested the stretch. Overlord's spike was a battering ram, pinning his glossa to the bottom of his mouth, stretching his lips wide. He could only manage to fit the first third inside and Overlord snapped a curse.   
  
He held Optimus' helm in place with one hand and started stroking the rest of his spike with the other, sharp movements that smacked his knuckles against Optimus' lip with every stroke.   
  
“Can I move now?” Motormaster demanded, sounding more than a little annoyed. He didn't wait for an answer either, his hands gripping Optimus' hip as he started to thrust again.   
  
Optimus pressed his functioning hand against his chestplate, over the dented metal where Overlord had tried to pry him open. It was no protection against them, nothing compared to Megatron's demand, but it provided a marginal comfort.   
  
Motormaster pressed harder against his back, venting on him, too hot and heavy, until all of Optimus' in-vents smelled and tasted like heavy diesel. Overlord's pre-fluid coated his mouth, his glossa was already heavy and sour with previous overloads. His hand smacked against Optimus' lips, sharp knuckles pecking at Optimus' dermal plating with pinpricks.   
  
Energy levels, twenty-two percent. It was a baleful number, even with the amount of transfluid in his tanks.   
  
His core temperature rose. Charge crackled through his valve, until his hips replied to Motormaster's of their own accord, pushing into Motormaster's thrusts. Damaged calipers rustled. Undamaged ones tried their hardest to compensate. His swollen nodes throbbed.   
  
Another overload, this one smaller than the others, more a release than a pleasure. It eased his internal pressure but little else. Optimus didn't make a noise, just shook and shook as Motormaster moaned his approval and Overlord shuddered.   
  
Overlord's spike swelled. The trickle of pre-fluid increased. Overlord hunched over him, and abruptly popped free. He overloaded with a drenching splatter on Optimus' face, his glossa, into his mouth which hung open, jaw mechanism trying and failing to close.   
  
“Hey!” Motormaster protested. He must have been caught by a stray drop.   
  
Optimus shuttered his optics, feeling the spill seep into every seam on his face. He smelled it, sticky-sweet, as it dripped down, slithering over his chestplate and arm.   
  
“Shut up,” Overlord laughed and wiped the tip of his spike against Optimus' face, smearing the transfluid around. He tipped his knuckle against Optimus' jaw, pushing his mouth shut.   
  
“You shouldn't have bothered,” Blitzwing said.   
  
Optimus heard them jostling, the hiss and whine of their hydraulics, the shuffling of positions. Overlord must have stepped aside, the drowning sensation of his field became distant. But then there were more hands on Optimus' face.   
  
“Now it's our turn,” Astotrain said.   
  
Our. Optimus repeated the term to himself.   
  
One of Motomaster's arms curled around his frame, palming Optimus' spike before drifting downward, plucking at his anterior node. Optimus shuddered.   
  
“Like it when you overload,” he said into Optimus' audial, still thrusting with that dedicated, leisurely pace. “Like it when you clench around me.”   
  
Fingers hooked in Optimus' mouth, pulling it open, spreading him wide. A spike poked between his lips, jabbing blindly. The fingers pulled further, hooked on his cheek plate. A second, thicker and blunter object nudged at his mouth. A second spike. Combined, they were larger than Overlord, but only just.   
  
Together, they jostled for space, shoving without rhythm into his mouth. They pushed and rubbed against each other and his glossa. They prodded at his cheek plating and occasionally poked the back of his intake. The fingers vanished, leaving only the spikes behind.   
  
Optimus gagged.   
  
Motormaster pinched and rolled his anterior node, rubbing it with the kind of gentleness better reserved for lovers. The heat in Optimus' array loved it, fed on it. His hips danced into Motormaster's slow, almost gentle thrusts. If not for the spikes invading his mouth, he might have even enjoyed it.   
  
He might have distanced himself, imagined a different time, a different place. The welcome stroke of one of his Autobots. Ratchet's talented hands and Wheeljack's creative ventures and Jazz's tender kisses and Ironhide's gentle touches and Prowl's soft, indulgent smile.   
  
It was a punch to the spark, a blow more severe than any fist, because Optimus would never have any of that again.   
  
Megatron had taken it all from him.   
  
The keen echoed through his spark, would have emerged through his vocalizer if Blitzwing and Astrotrain had not grunted over him. If the wet sounds of their hands working together hadn't culminated in the spilling of their spikes into his mouth. Transfluid spurted down his intake and coated his glossa, mingling with the taste of Overlord.   
  
They withdrew and Motormaster gasped into Optimus' audial. His thrusts increased in earnest, his manipulation of Optimus' anterior node drawing a whine from Optimus' engine. He felt the lubricant trickling out of his valve, tasted the transfluid on his glossa and surrounding him. His mouth was tacky. He couldn't taste anything but transfluid.   
  
“Overload,” Motormaster growled, his pelvis slapping against Optimus' aft. His fingers pinched and stroked Optimus' node.   
  
Charge sparked through Optimus' valve and danced against Motormaster's spike. His functioning calipers cycled down tight. His hips danced forward, eager for Motormaster's touch. His frame blazed.  
  
“Now,” Motormaster demanded and he bit at Optimus' audial, the scrape of denta against the sensitive metal zinging straight to Optimus' core.   
  
He shuddered as the blaze of arousal became a frame-wracking overload. His hips danced on Motormaster's lap, valve leaking more lubricant.   
  
Motormaster hissed his approval, grabbed Optimus' hips with both hands and slammed into him. Once, twice, three times, and he overloaded, shooting a hot spray of transfluid deep into Optimus' valve. The furthest spurt washed over his deepest node, dragging another whine from Optimus' engine.   
  
Then Motormaster was done and he shoved Optimus off his lap as though discarding him. Optimus tumbled forward, unable to catch himself. His knees hit hard and the rest of his frame followed.   
  
Were they finished?  
  
Optimus couldn't move, could barely process beyond the pain and the trembling. His frame was still a thing of fire. His armor clattered. His interface array pulsed with need, mixed with agony.   
  
He sprawled across the ground, components bare and sticky. He didn't have the wherewithal to cover himself. He wanted to drag himself away, but his one functioning arm refused to obey his commands.   
  
Someone grabbed his legs, dragged him back and flipped him over. Optimus had a moment of seeing the dark sky above him, blinded by the floodlights, and then it was blotted out by Overlord's bulk. By the massive super-soldier moving between his legs, bending him in half, and shoving his spike into the ruins of Optimus' valve. There was one hard thrust, forcing past crippled calipers and at least he was lubricated, at least he had that. Optimus whimpered, one hand pawing uselessly at the ground, the world spinning.   
  
He couldn't ventilate, couldn't feel anything but the heat and oh Primus, here came Astrotrain with his greedy hands and his greedy cables and Optimus' hands were pinned again. Cables forced his mouth open, plunged into it, choking him. Another cable wrapped around his spike, squeezing the bruised dermal metal, jerking him off in tight, short motions.   
  
They were going to kill him, he thought with a moan.   
  
Overlord took him hard and fast, the single-minded pursuit of an overload. Optimus' frame rattled as he was pulled onto Overlord's spike again and again. His exhausted sensors riddled with charge and struggled to dredge up another overload he didn't want. There were warnings stripping through him. Burnt sensors. Fried circuits. Too much heat.   
  
It wasn't even pleasure anymore. It was just pain. The continuous rise and fall of charge. The sticky filth of transfluid and lubricant over his frame. The dents and cuts and misaligned joints and the rush of noise, always the noise.   
  
It wasn't going to end because Motormaster and Blitzwing were standing there, waiting their turns, and they were tireless and Optimus was going to be here forever, on his knees or his back, getting filled with their transfluid.   
  
_You are going to learn your place, Prime._   
  
Optimus whimpered.  
  
He feared Megatron was going to win. He feared Megatron already had.   
  


***


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Shockwave/Optimus, Ratchet, Hook, Soundwave, Starscream, Stunticons, Mirage, Swoop, First Aid, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: humiliation, depression/dark thoughts, weapons in uncomfortable places, sexual harassment  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Head Above Water," Theory of a Deadman

Optimus onlined to a slate gray ceiling. A pang of longing struck him then, with a deep and abiding sense of loss.   
  
Everyone had griped and complained about the color of the Ark. No one liked the orange. It was offensive to the optics. What was Grapple thinking?  
  
Right now, Optimus would give his left arm to have woken from a battle to stare up at that offensively orange ceiling. He would love to chuckle at Sideswipe's attempts to make it more fascinating by emulating Michelangelo. He wasn't very good at it. His brother had shoved him out of the way and turned the scribbles into art, surprising everyone. The Protectobots, at First Aid's insistence, had banded together to scribble all sorts of uplifting messages. None of it had covered the orange, but it had helped to hide it.   
  
Optimus missed that now, more than ever.   
  
He shuttered his optics and turned his helm away.   
  
Only then did he notice an absence of pain. There was a persistent ache, the discomfort of new equipment settling itself, but he didn't hurt. His shoulder had been slotted back into place. The virus must have run its course because his frame was a normal temperature. His energy tanks read a steady thirty percent, but that was typical now.   
  
He wanted a bath with searing hot water, buckets of solvent, and a wire scrub brush. He'd been cleaned, but he still felt sticky. The taste of transfluid lingered. He swore that the stench clung to his plating.   
  
Optimus shuddered, ill to his very core. He expected to feel more, but there was a strange sense of disconnect to his frame. Those memories were fresh, but distant. There was a lingering sense of hands on his frame, on his components, and then it was gone again.   
  
How long had he been unconscious this time? He consulted his chronometer, feeling sick at the answer it returned. A week. They'd damaged him enough that he'd been in the medcenter for a week.   
  
How close had he come to offlining?  
  
“Optimus?”   
  
He flinched as he felt the hand on his arm, until he recognized the light buzz of an energy field. His own all but dove out to return the familiarity, eager for comfort, for a spark of something that wasn't pain or fear or humiliation.   
  
He onlined his optics and saw Ratchet standing at his berthside, face downcast, optics dim, a collar around his neck. But his paint was clean, if not a bit scuffed, and he didn't appear to be damaged.   
  
“R-R-R--.” He stopped trying when all his vocalizer would spit was static.   
  
“The new components are still integrating,” Ratchet said with a little squeeze. “Give it a few moments. Anything hurt?”   
  
Optimus shook his helm. No pain, thank Primus.   
  
“Good.” Ratchet ventilated and abruptly cast a nervous look to the side, his frame tense, before he looked at Optimus again. His let go of Optimus' arm and gripped his hand, tangling their fingers lightly together. “Optimus, I'm sorry.”   
  
For what, he wanted to ask, but his vocalizer still wouldn't engage.   
  
“I'm so sorry,” Ratchet repeated and his vents were hitching now, his grip tightening. His plating clamped tight to his frame.   
  
Ratchet's sense of guilt had always rivaled Optimus' own.   
  
He squeezed his chief medic's hand, trying to tell him without words that whatever it was, Optimus forgave him. Ratchet was only trying to survive. He couldn't be blamed for anything. It was all any of them could do.   
  
“Slave!”   
  
Ratchet jumped as though struck, tearing his hand free of Optimus. His optics brightened. “Master Hook!”   
  
The Constructicon came storming into the room, optics bright and furious as Ratchet ducked his helm and headed for the door.   
  
“You're not allowed in here!” Hook snarled, backhanding Ratchet solidly. It was a blow hard enough to echo in the room, but not send Ratchet to the floor.   
  
He staggered, but kept his footing and his helm down. “I know. I'm sorry, Master. I just--”  
  
He clamped his mouth shut as Hook raised his hand again and it hurt, to see his strong and stalwart CMO so cowed, his lips pressed together, optics shuttered. It hurt to see Ratchet submit, when he'd always been so indomitable, and all Optimus wanted to do was rise up from the berth and knock Hook aside.   
  
But he was as trapped as Ratchet, as chained by the collar and the shackles. He could only watch as Ratchet lowered his helm again, looking small and meek beside the large Constructicon. His hands hung at his side, as though he'd forgotten how to defend himself, or maybe submission was the best defense.   
  
“Get out!' Hook snarled and Ratchet all but leapt to obey, hurrying out of the room without lifting his gaze, without a second look back at Optimus.   
  
Hook followed him to the door, bellowing out into the dark beyond. “Scavenger! If you don't leash the pet when it's your turn, you'll lose the next one!”   
  
If Scavenger replied, Optimus couldn't hear it.   
  
Hook trudged back into the room, grumbling under his breath, and then a full-force scan raked Optimus from helm to pede.   
  
“Well,” he said, in a slightly better mood, “I'm a genius after all. You are one hundred percent back to capacity, full use even. Lord Megatron should be pleased.” He poked between Optimus' legs with a stylus and a penlight. “Full use indeed.”   
  
Optimus' vocalizer spat static.   
  
“Oh, hush. This doesn't even hurt,” Hook said, tone shifting back to annoyed. He peered closer, prodding at Optimus' valve cover. “You're lucky you get to keep your cover. Most of the other slaves don't. Though our pet gets to keep his. Too much of a distraction otherwise.”   
  
A distraction. As if it was Ratchet's fault the Constructicons couldn't keep their hands off him or their spikes out of him. Optimus' tank clenched.   
  
“Good as new!” Hook declared and drummed his fingers over Optimus' valve cover before he straightened. “I proclaim you fit for duty once more.” He reached for the many wires connecting Optimus to various machines throughout the room. “Now your master is far too busy to come collect you, but he's sent a substitute.”   
  
The door slid open, and Optimus looked over. Soundwave darkened the frame. Well, he supposed Megatron would trust no one else but his most loyal soldier to escort his property.   
  
“Punctual as always, Soundwave,” Hook said as he tugged and pushed and pulled Optimus off the berth, his hands far from professional. “You always seem to know the perfect moment to make an entrance.”   
  
“Timeliness appreciated,” Soundwave monotoned, his visor turned toward Hook but Optimus suspected that he wasn't watching Hook at all.   
  
The Constructicon chuckled and snapped the leash to Optimus' collar, handing the end to Soundwave. “Shall I cuff him for you?”   
  
“Negative.” Soundwave gripped the lead firmly. “The Prime will be obedient.”   
  
“And if not, you'll make him so, yes?” Hook leered.   
  
Optimus shuddered, his armor clamping tight to his frame. He touched his intake, feeling around the collar, fingers grazing the recent weldwork. Speaking produced a few hissing sounds, but he could feel the component engaging. He rebooted it just in case.   
  
“Now get going,” Hook said with a flick of his hands. “Megatron doesn't like being kept waiting and there's a slave in need of a reminder.”   
  
“Affirmative.” Soundwave gave a small pull on the chain, urging Optimus toward him. “Prime will obey.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrowed, but he did follow, albeit at a slow pace. He still ached. Refusal gained him nothing. Cooperation earned him less pain.   
  
He would only lose what he could afford to lose.   
  
Outside the room, Optimus tried to look for Ratchet, but he couldn't see his CMO anywhere. The only other Constructicon in sight was Mixmaster, standing over a table covered in various vials of brightly colored liquids. It also occurred to him that he hadn't seen Perceptor, though he was sure the Constructicons had claimed him.   
  
Would they even answer him if he asked?  
  
Optimus checked the status of his vocalizer as Soundwave led him out of the medcenter. Judging by their direction, they were heading toward the command center.   
  
Dread curled in his tanks. His ventilations quickened. He felt, at once, both hot and cold.   
  
His vocalizer pinged back full utility.   
  
Optimus glanced around them. It didn't seem there were any potential eavesdroppers for once.   
  
“Soundwave.”   
  
The Communications specialist drew to a halt, half-turning to look at Optimus. His visor and mask betrayed nothing, his energy field as withdrawn as Optimus'. But he didn't speak.   
  
There were a thousand questions Optimus could ask. But he settled for the one that worried him the most, the one that kept him moving when all he wanted to do was curl into a corner.   
  
“I have heard that the Decepticons have ten Autobots. Do you know who?”   
  
Something rippled across Soundwave's visor, a flash of color. “Negative.”   
  
“Am I not allowed to know?”   
  
“Affirmative.”   
  
“Why?”  
  
Soundwave's plating ruffled, lifting and settling around his frame. The lead, Optimus noticed, wasn't as tightly gripped as it should have been. “Lord Megatron's orders.” He turned back around. “Come.”   
  
He started forward and Optimus followed after him, still moving stiffly. The ache of recent repairs lingered.   
  
“Does he fear us?”   
  
Soundwave didn't answer. Optimus should have expected as much.   
  
Megatron certainly feared Jazz enough. If he were smart, he would have killed all the Autobots, rather than turning them to slaves. Not that Optimus wished death on his soldiers, but surely it was preferable to this.   
  
They arrived in the command center which was in far more a flurry of activity than the last time Optimus had been present. Red Alert was still in his corner, tonelessly reciting a lack of activity, unchanged.   
  
Megatron was sitting on his throne, but Starscream stood at his right hand. The two of them were talking and though Megatron registered irritation, neither of them seemed inclined to violence. Whatever had changed to prompt them to work together, it was still effective.   
  
They noticed Soundwave's arrival and his cargo. Starscream promptly planted a sneer on his face, his arms crossing over his cockpit, but Megatron beckoned with one hand.   
  
“Ah, thank you, Soundwave, you've brought me my property.” He snapped his fingers and his smile broadened when Soundwave placed the end of the lead on Megatron's palm.  
  
The Slagmaker gave it a jerk, and Optimus stumbled forward, nearly tripping on his own pedes. Megatron's free hand gripped Optimus' helm, tilting it upright, as his optics raked over Optimus' frame.   
  
“Almost factory new,” he mused aloud.   
  
Optimus' engine growled, anger quick to take over the disconnect. Megatron's face was enough to incite fury.   
  
“So that you can ruin it all over again, I imagine,” Optimus spat. “Do you pride yourself on wasting resources?”   
  
Megatron tilted his helm, optics narrowing. “I wouldn't call it a waste, Prime. After all, you provided pleasure and entertainment to my soldiers. A waste would have been to kill you.”   
  
He let go of Optimus' helm and pushed hard on his shoulders. He drove Optimus down to his knees, though his grip on the lead forced Optimus to look up at him.   
  
“And that, my dear Prime, I am unwilling to accept.”   
  
“Leader.”   
  
Megatron's gaze drifted away from Optimus, his focus shifting to Starscream. The Seeker stood by a nearby console, staring at something on the screen.   
  
“What is it, Starscream?”  
  
“Motormaster just commed. They're on their way back.”   
  
Megatron's engine growled an unpleasant note. “Their patrol is not due to end for another three hours.”   
  
“They've found an Autobot. Estimated arrival, five minutes.”   
  
Optimus stiffened, turning his helm as far as the lead would allow as he stared at Starscream. The Seeker's expression betrayed nothing.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “Did they now?” He pulled on the lead again, dragging Optimus back to his pedes. “Then what a unique opportunity to prove to you, Prime, how I make use of available resources. Soundwave, take command.”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
Dread pooled in Optimus' tanks. He had no retort to offer Megatron, nothing that wouldn't inspire more humor. He could only stumble after the warlord as he strode from the command center, Starscream on his heels. He felt forgotten, incidental, as they carried on their conversation and dragged him along like unwilling decoration.   
  
“Did he say who?”   
  
“No, Master. He sounded proud, however. Claims he caught the mech responsible for raiding the storage in Protihex.”   
  
The dread worsened. Optimus' tanks twisted into knots.   
  
“I highly doubt that,” Megatron said.   
  
“I only repeat what I'm told.”   
  
They emerged from the command center and headed for the open courtyard. There they waited, Megatron shoving Optimus down to his knees next to Megatron, as though he were some obedient pet. Optimus half-expected to be ordered to perform for their entertainment, but it seemed Megatron was more interested in his conversation with Starscream.   
  
“Rather than sound like a fool, you should consider verifying your information,” Megatron said, but it was a lazy drawl that indicated he wasn't as angry as he could be.   
  
Starscream snorted a ventilation. “I'll keep that in mind for next time. But I no more think that team of idiots caught Jazz than you do.”   
  
Megatron's gaze whipped toward him. “There is no proof that he's responsible.”   
  
“We're all thinking it.”   
  
Megatron's engine gave a telling rumble. “I don't care. I want proof before everyone starts jumping at ghosts.”   
  
Starscream tilted his helm in concession. “Whatever you say, Master.”  
  
The roar of high performance engines announced the Stunticons' arrival. Optimus watched with growing despair as they pulled up and transformed, looking none the worse for wear. Drag Strip and Dead End entered Motormaster's trailer, no doubt to retrieve the Autobot, and Optimus' ventilations stalled.   
  
He didn't know who to expect. He didn't know which of his Autobots survived enough to guess, save that he'd be honestly surprised if it was Jazz.   
  
It wasn't, he realized as the dirty, bleeding, and discolored frame was dragged out of Motormaster's trailer, giving him room to transform. Optimus still could not be more surprised.   
  
Megatron roared with laughter. “The pet noble,” he said, throwing his arms wide in a grand gesture, dropping the end of the lead.   
  
It landed next to Optimus and he stared dully at it. He couldn't even count it as freedom. Where would he go? What would he do? What would it gain him?  
  
“Found 'im scraping around in Uraya's ruins,” Motormaster said with a grin, one hand gripping Mirage by the back of the neck as he thrust Mirage forward.   
  
Mirage could barely walk. One leg was mangled and twisted and the best he could do was hobble. One arm had gone the way of his leg. Both optics flickered fitfully. Judging by the spatters over his frame, the Stunticons had taken advantage of their find in the same way the triple-changers had Optimus.   
  
“Musta damaged his systems or somethin'. Fragger can't even go invisible.” Motormaster's grin widened. “We can keep him, right?”   
  
“Lord Megatron, I must protest!” Starscream said, storming up to join them. This left Optimus kneeling on the ground, practically alone. “Bad enough that we keep the Prime alive, but this spy as well? Surely it's not coincidence that he should appear within a week of the Protihex theft.”   
  
Megatron turned his helm toward Starscream, his optics narrowing. “Do you think we can't handle one Autobot, especially a damaged one?”   
  
“Of course not,” Starscream scoffed, wings arching up high. “But this is not some random footsoldier. Even Soundwave had trouble keeping him out of the Nemesis. At the very least, you can't leave him with those idiots.”   
  
“Hey!” Motormaster swelled up and his subordinates crowded around him, all five pinning the Seeker with a baleful look. “We earned 'im. We caught 'im, we keep 'im. That's the rules.”  
  
“The rules are whatever I say they are, Motormaster,” Megatron corrected and he turned back toward the Stunticons. He stalked toward Mirage, grabbing the noble and yanking him away from Motormaster. “And I decide where the Autobot belongs.”   
  
Motormaster frowned. His subordinates deflated, but not without a sullen look Megatron's direction. This would be the second Autobot Megatron had taken from them, if Optimus remembered correctly. Even the most loyal could be lead to contempt. Megatron better be careful.   
  
“But--”  
  
Megatron held up a hand, silently cutting off Motormaster's protest. He gripped Mirage's shoulder, tight enough that the metal audibly buckled, though Mirage made no noise of pain. Those fitfully blinking optics couldn't focus.   
  
“I allowed you to play with my pet,” Megatron reminded him. “Do not forget that honor.”   
  
“Surely you don't intend to keep Mirage for yourself,” Starscream said, his fists planted on his hips.   
  
“Of course not.” Megatron dug his thumb into Mirage's collar fairing, lips pulling into a smirk as Mirage winced and his engine raced into a high pitch. “But I do think Shockwave will find his electrodisruptor a useful item to study.”   
  
Motormaster muttered something, his hands forming fists at his side.  
  
“And in the meantime, Motormaster, you can have one of Shockwave's Autobots,” Megatron said. “There are a few that no longer interest him.”   
  
“But those are all used up!” Motormaster protested.  
  
“Then you can go without,” Megatron said in a mild tone. His free hand started petting Mirage's helm, fingering one crushed helm projection before moving on to the other. “The choice is yours.”   
  
Some of the tension eased out of Motormaster's frame, though the rest of the Stunticons grumbled amongst themselves. “Any one of them?”   
  
“Any that Shockwave is willing to part with. You can go choose now if you want. Tell him I sent you.”   
  
More grumbling ensued but at least now it sounded pacified. One Autobot for the five of them? Optimus shrank into himself. He didn't dare contemplate it. No matter who it was, the Stunticons would ruin him.   
  
Motormaster dipped his helm in a semblance of a bow and took his leave, teammates trailing along behind them. Wildrider giggled, already babbling about the type of slave they hoped to find.   
  
Starscream watched them go as well, his expression inscrutable. “You are going to run out of Autobots, Leader,” he commented before his optics shifted back to Megatron. The agitation in his stance had not faded.   
  
“I have enough for now,” Megatron said dismissively and he thrust a thumb into Mirage's mouth, smearing energon around. “This one can become a service to all my soldiers.”   
  
Mirage's optics flickered fitfully, and Optimus could see him trembling. Whether it was from fatigue or energon loss or Megatron's implications, Optimus didn't know.   
  
His Autobot was a few feet in front of him, in the hands of the enemy, and there wasn't a Primus-forsaken thing Optimus could do about it.   
  
“Not Shockwave?”  
  
“Shockwave first,” Megatron mused aloud, idly molesting Mirage with lingering sweeps of his hand. His fingers flirted over the ruin that had become Mirage's interface array. “Have him remove the electrodisruptor. Then put him in the pen.”   
  
Starscream's optics narrowed. Optimus expected him to bristle. Starscream never followed Megatron's orders without a snide comment.   
  
Instead, Starscream visibly reset himself and made a grab for Mirage, though not before Megatron shoved the spy his direction.   
  
“Whatever you say,” Starscream said, and he tossed Mirage over his shoulder, an easy thing for a Seeker to do. His gaze shifted past Megatron, briefly resting on Optimus, before he activated his thrusters and shot into the air.  
  
Optimus was left alone with Megatron.   
  
Megatron approached Optimus, cannon gleaming in the streetlight. “You didn't run,” he observed, bending to sweep the end of the lead from the ground. “You waited for me.”   
  
Optimus looked up at him. “Where would I go?”   
  
“Where indeed.” Megatron stared at the end of the lead, turning it around and around in his fingers. “You are finally recognizing where you belong.”   
  
He didn't dignify that with a retort. “Who else have you given to Shockwave?” Optimus demanded instead. He could argue with Megatron until his vocalizer shorted out, but they both knew who had the upper hand here, and it wasn't Optimus.   
  
“Does it matter? You can't rescue them.” Megatron paused for dramatic effect, his lips curling back to reveal his sharpened denta. “You can't protect them.”   
  
“I still want to know.”   
  
“And what do I get in return?”   
  
Optimus' optics narrowed. He pressed his lips together, affixing Megatron with a glare.   
  
The warlord raised his orbital ridges. “Come now, Prime. You ask for information knowing that it doesn't come free.” He tossed the lead from one hand to the other. “What do you have to offer me?”   
  
“Nothing you can't take for yourself,” Optimus spat, the bitterness rising in him all over again.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “You are wrong. I can force you to do many things. But I can't force you to do them willingly.”   
  
Ice dripped like tiny shards through Optimus' lines. What more could Megatron take from him? What did he have left to give?  
  
“What do you want?”   
  
“Mmm. I already have you on your knees.” Megatron walked a slow circuit around him as though examining him from all angles. “Too bad we don't have an audience.”   
  
Optimus gritted his denta. “What do you want?” he repeated.   
  
Megatron's smirk sent ripples of irritation through Optimus' field. Especially when Megatron dragged his fingers across the crown of Optimus' helm. “What you don't want to give me. Your submission, Prime. I want you to show me the proper respect.”   
  
“Clarify.”   
  
Megatron stopped in front of him, close enough that Optimus was faced with his pelvic array and interface panel. Which was nothing new. This Optimus had done before.   
  
“Appreciate me, Prime,” Megatron said, one leg sliding forward, his pede coming to a rest between Optimus' knees. “Tell me you are grateful for my mercy,” He purred, engine revving, his optics darkening to a smolder. “Thank me for my kindness. For giving you the opportunity to serve.”   
  
Optimus' palms scraped the length of his thigh. “How do I know you'll hold up your end of the bargain?”   
  
“You'll just have to trust me.”   
  
Optimus' frown deepened.   
  
“I'll even up the stakes,” Megatron said and he allowed a bit of slack in the lead. “I'll not only tell you, I'll take you to them.”   
  
“Out of the kindness of your spark,” Optimus said flatly.   
  
“Because I am that generous.” Megatron's pede forced Optimus' knees wider, the edge of it scraping the inside of Optimus' thighs. “Now. How does a slave show his proper gratitude?”  
  
Optimus' hands pulled into fists where they rested on his thighs. He bowed his helm, feeling a rage unlike any other boiling within him. He weighed the possibilities.   
  
Megatron's pede nudged him again.   
  
“I'm losing my patience, Prime,” he said.   
  
His joints creaked. His hydraulics hissed. His frame bowed forward with achingly slow motions until his palms flattened and his helm was bent before Megatron, forehelm pressed to the ground. His vents expelled a slow rush of air.   
  
He had to reset his vocalizer twice before he could force the words to emerge.   
  
“I am grateful for your mercy,” Optimus said, and his spark seemed to shrink into itself.   
  
Had Ratchet done this, too? Had he bowed and sacrificed every ounce of his pride for the slimmest hope of survival? Had he weighed his pride against his spark and realized which he valued more? Was that why he apologized?  
  
Megatron's frame hummed above him, the trickles of his field suggesting approval. “Of course you are,” he said, and his pede nudged into Optimus' field of view. “Show me.”   
  
The plating on Optimus' back reshuffled with revulsion. His engine whined an uncomfortable pitch.   
  
The matrix remained silent. It offered no counsel and no comfort. It had not spoken to him in so long, Optimus was certain that meant he was no longer worthy of it.   
  
Optimus lifted his helm and obeyed. All he had left was his Autobots and it was a special kind of agony to not know their fate.   
  
A days worth of grit and dust clung to the silvery-gray pede. He felt it against his lips as he brushed his mouth over Megatron's pede, his faceplate burning and his audials spitting humiliated charge.   
  
Megatron's raspy chuckle only made it worse.   
  
“Continue,” he ordered as the lead rattled in his grip. “A slave must show the proper deference, Prime. And your master is dirty.”   
  
Optimus' tank gurgled. He glared at the ground and steeled himself. It was a petty thing that Megatron did.   
  
He parted his lips and licked a thin stripe across the tip of Megatron's pede, shuddering as he did so. The taste was not half as unpleasant as the shame gripping his spark. Compared to all the Decepticon transfluid he had consumed, Optimus preferred the road grit.   
  
Megatron's approval radiated in his field, trickling down over Optimus like a soft caress. His engine purred.   
  
“For this, I think I will keep my end of the bargain,” he said. “Get up.”   
  
Optimus dragged himself to his pedes, the taste of grit heavy on his glossa. He couldn't seem to lift his optics. It felt like a physical weight was on his shoulders, dragging him down.  
  
Megatron snatched his jaw, dragging him close and Optimus lifted his arms at the last moment, keeping their frames from colliding. He didn't want even the semblance of intimacy.   
  
“Keep fighting, Prime,” Megatron purred, his denta teasing at Optimus' audials. “It'll be all the sweeter when I finally break you.”   
  
Optimus shuddered.   
  
He said nothing in return and Megatron released him, taking up the lead again. “Now I believe you wanted a tour of Shockwave's facilities, and I am a mech of my word.”   
  
Optimus was beginning to believe this was less a generous act on Megatron's part, and more an attempt to prove a point.   
  
He followed the smug warlord across the courtyard, between several buildings, through a section of Iacon slotted for eventual rebuilding, and toward a long, squat structure with a single tower. Optimus was surprised that Shockwave had deigned to relocate. Though perhaps Megatron had not given him the choice.   
  
Shockwave's laboratory was a building of sharp angles and few, if any, windows. It looked like a prison, a place criminals were taken to be forgotten. Optimus felt an unprecedented urge to change his mind, to turn back, but Megatron's pace didn't falter and he was pulled closer to the darkness.   
  
The doors opened as Megatron approached, sliding aside for his entrance. Inside it was much cooler than outside, as though Shockwave pumped refrigerated air throughout the entire structure.   
  
The halls were long and empty, devoid of decoration. A few mechs stood at spaced intervals but even Optimus could tell with a glance that they were drones. Megatron hung a left, heading toward a massive set of double doors at the end. These, too, opened for him and they stood in a large, circular room, multiple doors in sight. Each was marked with a number. There was a control console of some kind in the center, surrounded by holographic screens, and here was where they found Shockwave.   
  
“Lord Megatron,” he greeted and a wave of his hand dismissed two of the screens before he came out from behind the console. “To what do I owe the honor?”   
  
“A demonstration,” Megatron explained and he dragged Optimus forward, planting a hand on Optimus' shoulder. “My pet would like to see all of yours.”   
  
Shockwave's single optic brightened. “I see. But, my lord, one is at a delicate stage in the experiment and--”  
  
He quieted when Megatron held up a second hand. “Spare me the explanation. I'll see the others.”   
  
“Your commander took one, under your orders, I am told,” Shockwave said, and there was a hint of something in his tone, irritation perhaps.   
  
“Motormaster didn't lie. He was only to take what you could spare.”   
  
Shockwave's plating rustled. “The mixed breed was no longer of use to me. But I could have found another purpose given time.”   
  
Mixed breed?  
  
“And if you do, Motormaster will relinquish his pet.” Now Megatron was the one who sounded frustrated. His grip on Optimus tightened. “Show me the monitors.”   
  
Shockwave hesitated before he dipped his helm with a little sigh from his vents. “At once, my lord. Step this way.” He gestured with his true hand.   
  
Megatron followed, pushing Optimus ahead of him. Optimus braced himself for the worst as he was shoved onto the platform, coming within sight of the multiple monitors. They all showed various readouts, scientific jargon unfamiliar to Optimus, but Shockwave stepped past him and pressed several buttons. The images fuzzed out, replaced by a live feed of several cells.   
  
Optimus' ventilations stalled.   
  
He counted four.  
  
First Aid looked as well as could be expected. He was in decent repair, and the only testament to his captivity was the collar around his intake. He didn't bear the wrist and ankle cuffs like everyone else. He sat at a desk, fiddling with some object, perhaps fixing it. Occasionally, he would pause to rub his chestplate.   
  
Optimus did not know what happened to the rest of Defensor. He suspected they had not survived. Not if First Aid was here on Cybertron when Optimus had left the Protectobots on Earth with the Dinobots.   
  
Speaking of Dinobots, one resided in the next cell over. Swoop paced back and forth across the floor, a slow and steady pace that spoke of his agitation. His plating was a lot dingier than the others, though he was not dented. His restraints were heavier and he was missing pieces of his armor, but the worst of it was the section missing from his helm. Something was plugged into it, not that Optimus could identify it.   
  
The last two were Sideswipe and Sunstreaker and Optimus did not know what Shockwave had done to them, but he did know that there was no better torture than to separate the two. Which was exactly what Shockwave had done. They were in separate cells, each of them smaller than the ones given to the others.   
  
Their heavy battle armor was gone, leaving only the thinnest outer frame to protect their substructure. Their chestplates had been replaced by a transparent panel, giving view to the frenzy flicker of their sparks beneath. Both of them, like Swoop, were dripping in chains.   
  
Though they had berths, both of them opted to sit on the floor, backs pressed to the wall. Given the placement of the cells, Optimus had to wonder if they were in cells side by side, and it was the closest they could get to one another.   
  
“I have to thank you, Lord Megatron,” Shockwave said, his tone ripe with flattery. “Acquiring Mirage for my collection ensures that I can find a way to duplicate the electrodisruptor. With any luck, we can begin outfitting an entire unit with the modification.”   
  
Optimus couldn't see Mirage on any of the screens.  
  
Megatron made a thoughtful noise. “And the others?”   
  
“All useful in their own way,” Shockwave answered, all too pleased with himself. “I'm getting closer to understanding their various anomalies. The medic has been a helpful acquisition. Without him, I might have been forced to call upon the Constructicons more often.”   
  
“We can't have that.” Megatron stared hard at the screen. “Good work, Shockwave.”   
  
Optimus sucked in a horrified ventilation. “Good work,” he repeated, drawing both of their gazes his direction. “How is any of this good? What in Primus' name are you doing to them?” His hands pulled into fists.   
  
Swoop's pacing had devolved to scratching at his helm, not touching whatever was crammed into his processor, but all around it. As though whatever Shockwave did to him was an itch he couldn't scratch.   
  
Optimus was glad, in that moment, he wasn't within field range of any of them.   
  
“That is none of your concern, Prime,” Shockwave huffed, bristling with menace.   
  
Megatron chuckled lowly and moved to Optimus' side, pressing up against him. “Of course it isn't. But Prime is still learning his place. Aren't you?” He nuzzled against Optimus' helm, a parody of affection, one arm curling around Optimus' waist to brush a hand over his interface panel.   
  
Optimus cringed, tilting his helm away from Megatron even as he tried to twist out of the warlord's embrace. Megatron pinned him further in place, venting hot air against Optimus' collar fairing.   
  
“Perhaps if I was allowed to take another look at his processor?” Shockwave asked, clicking his claws together.   
  
“Maybe another time.” Megatron groped harder at Optimus' panel, fingers rubbing against the seams in a manner that would have usually been pleasant. “You look as though you could use a rest, Shockwave.”   
  
Optimus went cold.   
  
The scientist tilted his helm. “I receive the optimal amount of recharge every cycle, my lord.”   
  
“Of course you do,” Megatron purred and he turned Optimus toward Shockwave, free hand rising to wrap around Optimus' intake. “And I know you don't take advantage of any of your subjects.”   
  
“Oh no, my lord. I would never think to disrupt the integrity of my experiments.” Despite his vehemence, however, Shockwave appeared to finally be catching on. “I have so much to do that I simply don't have the time--”  
  
“Come now, Shockwave,” Megatron interrupted, fingers pushing hard at Optimus' panel, threatening the thin metal, until Optimus took the hint and triggered it open. “You deserve a reward.”   
  
Optimus' intake worked, his vocalizer buzzing, unable to initialize with the pressure of Megatron's fingers upon it. His valve spasmed as two fingers shoved into it, prodding around the minimally lubricated walls.   
  
“You are generous,” Shockwave said and his fingers clicked an off rhythm over his console.   
  
It had nothing to do with generosity, Optimus seethed. It was about proving a point.   
  
“I am,” Megatron said, and he released Optimus, shoving him forward.   
  
Optimus stumbled, hands moving to catch himself against the console. Megatron's hand landed against the back of his neck, pushing him down until he bent over. A kick between his pedes encouraged his legs to spread, his aft pushing out, his bare valve on display. A clear invitation.   
  
All Optimus could see were the monitors, his Autobots suffering under Shockwave's ministrations.   
  
Optimus braced his hands on the console, tried to push himself upright. Megatron pressed harder on the back of his neck, keeping him pinned. Optimus' engine gave a tired growl.   
  
Megatron leaned over him then, his vocals a whisper against Optimus' audials. “Shockwave might not choose to take one of his pets, but a single word from me and he'll have one of them up here. Do you want to be responsible for that, Prime?”   
  
Optimus froze and shuttered his optics. He flattened himself against the console, frame going limp.   
  
“I thought so.” Megatron nipped his audial and drew back, though he left his hand on the back of Optimus' neck. “Shockwave?”   
  
Optimus heard the scientist move, and felt Shockwave get closer. His energy field was drawn tight, but there was something in the tentative drag of Shockwave's hand down Optimus' back that spoke of unpleasant things.   
  
“I admit, my lord, that I am not one inclined to interface,” Shockwave said, but then his hand traveled lower, fingers tracing the rim of Optimus' valve. The touch was clinical, exploratory. “I do not understand the appeal.” His thumb brushed Optimus' anterior node and Optimus shuddered. “Though testing reactions to stimuli does have a certain appeal. Are you opposed to an object outside of my interfacing equipment?”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “Do not damage him. I have plans and don't want to have to return him to Hook's care this evening.”   
  
“I wouldn't dare. But I am curious.” Shockwave's fingers flitted around the rim of Optimus' valve as though measuring it. “Certain frequencies are said to cause immediate and intense arousal and I--”  
  
“Spare me the explanation, Shockwave.” Megatron sounded bored. His fingers flexed on the back of Optimus' neck. “Just do it.”   
  
“As you wish.”   
  
Shockwave's fingers poked into Optimus' valve, prodding around, pulling at the rim. It was all scientific curiosity that shouldn't feel as violating as it did. By all accounts, it was almost preferable.   
  
“He is insufficiently lubricated,” Shockwave lamented, like one might a piece of equipment lacking hydraulic fluid.   
  
Megatron chuckled and shifted beside Optimus, a second hand joining Shockwave's, only Megatron was a lot more deliberate. He stroked Optimus' internal sensors, his thumb providing a light touch to Optimus' anterior sensor. The touch was just gentle enough that Optimus' valve translated it as pleasure. A low heat built in his internals.   
  
“Will that suffice?”   
  
“It'll do.” Shockwave cycled a ventilation.   
  
Megatron withdrew his hand and Shockwave's fingers departed as well. Optimus didn't know what to expect. He didn't want to online his optics to find out. He cringed, lubricant barely slicking his walls, and then something cold and hard pressed against his valve. It had no give, but it let off a low level of vibration. A sex toy?  
  
“Do not damage my Autobot, Shockwave,” Megatron warned.   
  
“The safety is engaged, my lord,” Shockwave replied and the low level vibration cycled into a higher setting, sending low, pulsing waves through Optimus' valve.   
  
He swallowed down a moan even as shards of ice dripped through his internals. He had the sinking feeling that it wasn't a toy or Shockwave's spike in his valve.   
  
The object – Shockwave's blaster – pushed deeper, the smooth barrel gliding effortlessly against the mesh of Optimus' valve. His calipers cycled down, clutching at the polished metal, his nodes singing with the stimulation. It grew hotter, as though cycling into readiness, the heat almost pleasant against Optimus' recently repaired mesh.   
  
“After this, we will return to my quarters,” Megatron said against Optimus' audial, the sibilant hiss a horrifying promise. “I have plans for you, my pet.”   
  
Optimus' fingers scraped the console. “Are you trying to frighten me?” he forced out.  
  
He drew in a sharp ventilation as Shockwave's blaster pushed so deep that the end lodged against Optimus' ceiling node and his valve stretched wide around the base of it. There was a click as the vibrating increased in intensity, dragging a small cry from Optimus' vocalizer.   
  
“Hmm,” Shockwave said. One finger traced Optimus' stretched rim, poking it with another thoughtful hum.   
  
Megatron bit down on his antenna, the scrape of his denta jarring compared to the smooth push of Shockwave's blaster. “Merely giving a warning. A reminder that the worst, my pet, has yet to come.”   
  
Shockwave withdrew and thrust in, more forceful this time, rocking Optimus forward on the console. His windshields scraped across the top. His valve pulsed, calipers squeezing tight, pleasure blooming through his array. The nodes sang, charge ramping higher with every touch of Shockwave's blaster. Lubricant liberally soaked Optimus' valve.   
  
“Messy,” Shockwave observed, an edge of distaste to his vocals.   
  
Megatron laughed. “Interfacing often is.”   
  
“How wasteful.” Shockwave pushed harder, grinding the open barrel against Optimus' ceiling node.   
  
Optimus' hips squirmed. His pelvic array rubbed on the edge of the console, sending reverberations through to his spike. He groaned and clamped his mouth down his arm, trying to stifle the noises.   
  
There was another click and then a whine before electrical discharge suddenly coursed through his valve, lighting up every sensor node in an abrupt burst. Optimus writhed, pedes scraping at the floor. His hips danced in place at the unexpected overload. Heat surged in the wake of the discharge, his sensors throbbing. Oral lubricant dribbled from his mouth.   
  
Optimus sagged against the console, his valve quivering around Shockwave's blaster. His vents sucked in some of the frigid air, his fans whirling.   
  
“Curious,” Shockwave said. He removed his blaster with a slow slide of the barrel.   
  
Optimus bit down a moan, his sensitized nodes responding to the stimulation.   
  
“How so?” Megatron asked. His hand slipped over Optimus' aft, fingers plunging into his valve and swirling through the lubricant. He pinched Optimus' anterior node, making Optimus jerk.  
  
“Close up,” he said, and then his hand removed itself.   
  
Optimus snapped his panel shut so quickly Megatron would have lost a finger if he hadn't already removed them.   
  
“The reaction was stronger than I anticipated.” Cloth rustled as Shockwave withdrew something to wipe down his blaster. “I may have to adjust my hypotheses. Sensors in the receptive equipment appear to be far more elaborate than I realized.”   
  
Megatron patted Optimus on the aft like one might a pet who had served his master well. “Theories are only as good as practice, Shockwave. Contact me should anything change with your toys.”   
  
“Of course, Lord Megatron.” Shockwave dipped his helm in a bow.   
  
Megatron gripped Optimus' lead and gave it a tug. “As for us, we have an appointment to keep.”   
  
Optimus stumbled after him, array still tingling, as dread settled in his tanks.   
  


***


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Megatron/Ratchet, Scrapper, Prowl(in flashback), Jazz, Grimlock, Snarl, Slag, Wheeljack, Bumblebee, Rumble  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: shock collar, physical abuse, forced bondage, flashbacks, sacred artifact destruction?
> 
> Mood Music: "Toy Soldiers," Martika

Optimus wasn't sure what to expect when they returned to Megatron's quarters. Another stint in front of the display monitor perhaps. Another night spent recharging while chained to the wall. Another spray down in the washracks. Another half-sparked spar where Megatron beat him down before taking him.   
  
None of these occurred.   
  
Megatron drew a cube of energon, drained it, disposed of it and then dragged Optimus back to his berth room. Optimus had yet to enter this room and a great sense of foreboding crashed over him.   
  
Megatron had not offered him any energon. Did he mean for Optimus to beg for fuel again? Maybe Megatron's creativity had finally worn out.   
  
“Are you lonely?” Optimus asked when the silence became too heavy for his comfort. “Did you decide you needed a berthmate to sleep at night?”   
  
“Sleep,” Megatron repeated, his tone snide. He pulled Optimus into the berthroom, hitting a panel to dim the overhead lights to half-brightness.   
  
Within was a berth large enough for both of them, a computer console currently shut down, and a set of shelves stocked with datapads, empty cubes, and a few power units. The room was startlingly utilitarian. Optimus half-expected the shelves to be filled with monuments to Megatron's greatness. Trophies even.   
  
“We don't sleep, Prime,” Megatron continued.   
  
All of the sudden, he turned toward Optimus, unclipping the lead from Optimus' collar and laying it on the back of the desk chair.   
  
The weight had been negligible, but Optimus welcomed its absence. In so much as he dreaded whatever it meant for Megatron's intentions.   
  
Optimus touched the collar, his optics narrowing. “What is this about?”   
  
“Claiming my rightful property,” Megatron said and he backed Optimus toward the berth, his presence suddenly that much larger.   
  
A part of Optimus relaxed. So it was to be another assault then. Nothing new. Perhaps if he gave in and let Megatron do as he wished, it would be over sooner and he could be given some peace.   
  
“You can say whatever you want, that doesn't make your ownership true,” Optimus said.   
  
His aft hit the berth and Megatron crowded him against it, his massive frame pinning Optimus in place. One knee nudged between Optimus' legs, Megatron's upper thigh rubbing against Optimus' valve panel.   
  
Optimus turned his helm away as Megatron nuzzled against him, ex-venting heat.   
  
“That's where you're wrong, Prime.” Megatron's hands landed on Optimus' hips with a squeeze. “And I'll prove it to you. Get on the berth.”   
  
Optimus frowned, but he obeyed. It was a waste of his limited energy to do otherwise. Megatron joined him, crawling over Optimus and settling between Optimus' legs. His hands spread over Optimus' windshields. His smirk sent a chill down Optimus' backstrut.   
  
“Hands over your helm,” Megatron said.   
  
Optimus sighed and lifted his arms, feeling the wall above him. “I suppose you want me to whimper and beg for more?”   
  
Megatron laughed. “That would be ideal but I know better. That'll come soon enough.” He rocked his hips against Optimus', their panels scraping together. But he made no move to release his spike or demand that Optimus reveal his valve.   
  
Optimus offlined his optics and turned his helm away. “Just get it over with then.”   
  
“I intend to.” Megatron's weight settled harder against him. Two blunt fingers dragged down Optimus' center seam. “Open.”   
  
Optimus' optics snapped back online, his helm whipping toward Megatron. “What?”   
  
“You heard me.” Megatron leaned forward, his optics burning brighter. “Open your chestplates, Prime.”   
  
Ice formed in his lines. Optimus' arms snapped back down, over his chestplate, but Megatron grabbed them just as quickly, pinning them back over his helm.   
  
Megatrin grinned, his denta gleaming. “Ah, now you have some fight.”   
  
Optimus glared. “You have my frame. I won't let you have my spark.”   
  
“That's not your choice to make,” Megatron said, and his fingers squeezed tight enough to stress the gears in Optimus' wrists. “So you can either open your chestplates for me, or I can rip them open. I'll enjoy it either way.”   
  
Optimus' spark flared with fear. He'd endured everything else. He'd let Megatron take his frame, ruin his valve and his spike. He'd bent on hands and knees. He'd suborned himself to Megatron.   
  
But not this. _Never_ this.   
  
Optimus' engine snarled. He tensed and threw himself to the side, using every bit of mass he had left. He jammed a knee toward Megatron, trying to kick the warlord off him.   
  
Megatron twisted to avoid the blow, slamming his wrists down against the berth. Something cracked as pain lanced through his right arm. Optimus gritted his teeth, ignored it, and thrashed beneath Megatron. Ice sluiced through his lines and despair crawled into his spark.   
  
“Release me!” Optimus shouted. He yanked on his arms, trying to free them from Megatron's grip.   
  
But Megatron had the advantage of height and mass and leverage. He was fully fueled and fully repaired and armed. He rode Optimus' motions easily, his lust pouring into his field and lashing at Optimus.   
  
It made him physically ill, his tanks lurching. Megatron vented heat, a small laugh of satisfaction audible over the sound of clashing metal.   
  
“So now you fight,” he observed, fans whirring from exertion. “I'm impressed.”   
  
Optimus growled and twisted his frame, freeing up a leg. He pulled back his knee and slammed his pede into Megatron's abdominal armor, hearing it buckle beneath him. Megatron hissed and drew back, releasing one of Optimus' hands long enough to backhand him.   
  
Optimus gasped for a ventilation, vision spinning, but his hand was free and he lashed out at Megatron. The blow was knocked aside by Megatron's other hand but now both of his arms were free and Optimus threw himself forward, the urge to hurt the strongest he had ever felt.   
  
And then there was pain, slicing through every circuit, every line. Optimus screamed as his frame seized, and his vision whited out. He felt himself slipping, falling, and then he hit the ground, limbs twitching as the agony burnt through him.   
  
It seemed to last forever, the electrical discharge flaying every sensor and circuit and he swore he smelled burnt-out circuitry. The flashing electricity lit up the room, his visual feed swirling and swirling.   
  
It ended as abruptly as it began.   
  
Optimus collapsed with a gasp, a low, static moan slipping from his vocalizer. He'd forgotten about the collar. He hurt, by Primus, he hurt. Optimus forced his optics into a reboot, forced his frame to obey.   
  
Every movement was agony. He flopped onto his side, tried to get his arms and legs beneath him, but his joints were as solid as gelatin.   
  
He heard movement, the hiss-rush of hydraulics, the weight of Megatron's pedesteps. Megatron's voice came to him, as if over a distance.   
  
“I knew you wouldn't cooperate. Thankfully, I came prepared.”   
  
Optimus' vision swam. He saw blocks of color, hazy shapes, and the ground vibrated from Megatron's pedesteps. Megatron's field washed over his and then there were hands on him, hauling him up and dragging him back onto the berth.   
  
Optimus groaned, limbs twitching. His wrists were taken in a firm grip, more rattling metal accompanying the motion until his arms were pulled above his helm and secured. His ankles were given the same treatment, though secured at the end of the berth, splaying his thighs.   
  
Some clarity returned, the berth rattling as Megatron joined him on it, the warlord straddling Optimus' hips. His weight bore Optimus down, pinning him in place. His hands landed on Optimus' chestplate, thumbs sweeping the seam running between his windshields.   
  
Optimus moaned and tugged at his restraints. They rattled but offered no leeway. He rebooted his sensory equipment again and the static cleared from his optics.   
  
Megatron loomed over him, his expression intent, optics baleful. “With me yet, Prime?”   
  
“You... are a monster,” Optimus managed, his vocalizer clicking intermittently. His frame ached to his core.   
  
The pressure on his seam worsened. He felt metal buckle, heard the splinter of his windshields. Megatron dug into the seam with more than just his thumbs, forcing his way through.   
  
“I am a victor,” Megatron corrected. “Claiming what is mine. And if you do not open for me, I will take it for myself.”  
  
Optimus' hands formed fists. His spark beat faster. _Surrender what you can bear to lose._ This Optimus could not sanction. He would not make it easier.   
  
“The law of the Decepticons,” Optimus spat, biting back a cry of pain as Megatron shoved his fingers into the seam of his chestplate and yanked. “To destroy everything in front of them. Because nothing is ever enough.”   
  
Hinges screeched with the strain. His locks cracked. His chassis rose from the berth, pulled upward with every relentless tug.   
  
“You know nothing about us, Autobot,” Megatron retorted.   
  
His fingers curled around the first layer of Optimus' armor and Megatron yanked. Optimus' windshields shattered as his armor was ripped open.   
  
The second layer was only meant to protect him from blaster attacks. It was nothing against the force Megatron applied. Megatron punched through it as easily as the first and then the pale light of Optimus' spark lit up the room, multi-faceted as it gleamed through the Matrix.   
  
“Ahh,” Megatron said, tracing around the couplings that held the Matrix in place. “The Autobot Matrix. The very item which makes you a Prime.”   
  
It stirred then, rousing from the resting state it had born since Optimus first woke on Earth all those years ago. He rarely heard counsel from the ancient Primes as it was, and not since the four million years spent in stasis. He'd begun to think that the Matrix truly was an empty vessel.   
  
Until now.   
  
Optimus strained at his bindings; his ventilations came in sharper gasps. “What do you intend to do?” he demanded.   
  
“Take your throne,” Megatron said and his massive hand curved around the sphere of the Matrix, where glittering data crystals carried the knowledge of an entire civilization.   
  
“You'll kill me!” Optimus forced out. He could see the frantic pulses of his spark reflecting on Megatron's face and knew that his fear was just as plain to see.   
  
Pride had gone out the window.   
  
“I won't,” Megatron said and Optimus felt the scrape of his talons as though the Matrix had been wired into his sensor-circuits as well. And perhaps it had. “Your medic assured me. Though that isn't to say this won't be very unpleasant.”   
  
_I'm so sorry, Optimus._  
  
Oh, Ratchet. What had they done to you?  
  
Optimus' intake worked. “You hold nothing sacred,” he managed, his plating rustling.   
  
“Nothing of worth to the Autobots,” Megatron agreed with a fanged grin.   
  
His grip on the Matrix was tangible, iron-clad. Megatron looked down at Optimus as he pulled ever so slowly and the connectors between Optimus' chassis and the Matrix strained. He felt them deform, stress fractures developing.   
  
“I will take everything of worth to you,” Megatron said, his smile gone as his vocals dripped into a low hiss. “Everything you hold dear. And I'm going to start with this.”   
  
“Megatron--”  
  
He yanked.   
  
Optimus' world went the orange-red of warnings, his torso chasing after the torn lines of the Matrix as though that would keep them connected. Pain flooded through him, damage alerts stripped his processing functions raw. Burnt lines scorched his sensors. Energon dripped down on him, his own energon, warm and fresh.   
  
Vision returned, riddled with static.   
  
Megatron laughed, a dark sound, one hand clutching the Matrix, stained with Optimus' fluids.   
  
“Such a small thing,” he said, talons hooking into the tiny apertures.   
  
He tilted his helm. He looked down at Optimus. Metal creaked; glass fractured. The Matrix had no voice but Optimus heard it screaming all the same. A world's worth of history. One of the data crystals shattered. Silvery dust sprinkled down onto Optimus.   
  
His vents heaved. He wheezed. His vocalizer spat inarticulate static, something like a plea silent on his lips as a result.   
  
“There will never be another Prime,” Megatron said.   
  
He flexed his fingers. He squeezed. The Matrix shattered.   
  
Optimus seized. The Matrix wasn't connected to him, but he felt it. Like a band around his spark, dragging him down into darkness. He heard something, dimly, like an echo. He thrashed on the berth.   
  
His world went white.   
  
_“They're gone? What do you mean they're gone?” Ratchet demanded, sounding as perplexed as Optimus felt.  
  
Jazz rolled his shoulder. “I mean they ain't there. Nobody. Nada. The Nemesis is a ghost ship. I didn't see not bolt nor gear of a 'Con.”   
  
Prowl shook his helm. “That doesn't make any sense.” He reshuffled his datapads, helplessly scanning through them as though it would explain what Jazz had seen. “How can they be gone?”   
  
“I wish I knew. But they moved out. Checked everywhere. Screamer's lab has been stripped, so has the medbay. All of their living quarters are empty, though a few look as though they left in a big hurry. There weren't even any alarms or anythin'. I walked right in.” Now Jazz was the one looking disturbed, his visor a flat shade as opposed to the perky gleam.   
  
“Where would they go?” Prowl asked.   
  
“Megatron's up to somethin'. Ain't no guesses about it,” Ironhide insisted. A dark rumble built in his internals, canons cycling restlessly in their hidden panels.   
  
Optimus drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Jazz's information was spread out in front of him, though he was hard pressed to call it information. There was little there.   
  
“They wiped all the drives?” Optimus asked.   
  
“All of them.” Jazz braced his hands on the desk, his visor dim. “They're gone.”_   
  
He was being moved. His frame felt weightless for all that the pain remained. The taste of fire was on his glossa. He ached all over.   
  
There were voices around him. Hands on his plating. Optimus flinched, but couldn't move. His limbs were weighted down by shackles.   
  
“Prime,” someone said.   
  
But without the Matrix, that title no longer belonged to him.   
  
_“I do not understand, Mr. President. What is it, exactly, that you wish us to do?”  
  
Surrounded by a phalanx of armed guards, his secret service, the President of the United States looked up at Optimus without a trace of fear in his eyes. “We want you to leave. The people no longer wish to be caught in your war. With the Decepticons gone, we feel you don't need to be here either.”   
  
“What if they return?” Prowl asked, his frown deepening with every word from the human's mouth. His doorwings flicked. “What will you do then?”   
  
Left unsaid was the question, “who told them the Decepticons had gone?” The Autobots had only learned a week ago that the Nemesis was abandoned and they'd shared that information no further than the command staff.   
  
“They won't have any reason to,” said the Secretary of Defense, her face pinched with displeasure. She showed no trace of fear either. “Not with you gone. And we're not defenseless. We'll take action.”   
  
Frustration ate at Optimus, but he was careful to keep it from his expression. “If that is your true desire, then we will honor it, but I beg that you reconsider. Should something happen, our lack of resources will prevent us from returning to render aid.”   
  
“Good,” someone muttered, too quietly for others to hear, but not too quietly for a Cybertronian audial.   
  
“We will deal with that should the situation arise, but we don't anticipate it.” The President stood up straighter, his security bristling around him. “We, as a people, are done playing hosts to aliens.”_   
  
His optics onlined to the dull gray sheen of a medbay ceiling. He was growing to hate the sight of it. Optimus couldn't move, his systems registering as on standby per a medical officer's override.   
  
Shadows shifted. His gaze slid to the side, the sight of familiar white and red armor causing a wave of relief. One that dulled as Ratchet's distress became abundantly clear. It rasped against his field.   
  
Ratchet's mouth moved, but Optimus couldn't hear him. Were his audials malfunctioning?  
  
A hand rested on his arm. Optimus saw it but couldn't feel it. He longed to reach out, to hold his Chief Medical Officer. He still couldn't move.   
  
Ratchet's hand cupped his faceplate, warm and gentle, and Optimus wanted to weep because gentleness had become so foreign to him. Ratchet's expression darkened, a mix of anger and grief.   
  
Optimus' vision dimmed. The white crept in around the edges. He panicked, field flaring, startling Ratchet.   
  
Pain rose in his chassis. His spark ached. Ratchet faded from view.   
  
_“There's not enough room, no matter how much I rework it,” Prowl said, rubbing his forehelm. He slumped in his chair, doorwings flat against his back. “Someone is going to have to stay behind.”  
  
“The humans won't like that,” Jazz muttered. He didn't look at any of them, his arms folded under his bumper as he stared at the wall. He leaned against the door, frame tight with suppressed anger.   
  
Optimus sighed and braced his elbows on the desk. “What about negotiations?”   
  
“Denied. Three times.” Prowl frowned and Optimus couldn't remember the last time his second had smiled. “They want us gone. I've no doubt they'll encourage the process if we don't comply.”   
  
Optimus could not condone harming the humans. It was their right to request the Autobots leave. This was their planet. He simply couldn't understand the sudden demand. They had been working toward a permanent alliance. Ground had already been cleared for a permanent base!  
  
“Still no word from the Decepticons?” Optimus asked.   
  
“None,” Jazz bit out.   
  
Optimus hid behind his clasped hands. “How many?”   
  
Prowl pulled out a datapad and set it on the table. “Of all of us, the humans like Defensor the most. I recommend that the Protectobots stay behind. They are a fully functional team and are comfortable here.”   
  
“Grimlock's not leavin',” Jazz added, shifting his weight from one pede to the other. “He thinks you're making a mistake.”   
  
Optimus knew that much. Grimlock had expressed himself quite vehemently. He did not understand why Optimus would concede to the humans.   
  
“I don't wish to leave anyone behind,” Optimus said.   
  
“We have to face the realities, Prime,” Prowl replied. “They haven't given us any other choice.”_   
  
He onlined again, this time with sound and sensation, enough that he wondered if the last time had been a memory purge.   
  
“You'll live.”   
  
He turned his helm and found Ratchet sitting in a chair beside him, his hands clasped around one of Optimus'. Ratchet was looking at him, his optics dim.   
  
“I know that's probably not good news anymore but...” Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “You flat-lined twice. I almost thought we'd lost you. I warned Megatron. The Matrix was as much a part of you as you were a part of it.”   
  
Movement was a dull ache. Optimus' free hand groped at his chestplates, tracing the new and delicate welds – Ratchet's work. He felt strangely empty.   
  
“Optimus--”  
  
“I am no longer Prime,” he said, his vocalizer glitched with static but coherent enough. He shuttered his optics. “You owe me nothing, Ratchet.”   
  
His medic's hands tightened around Optimus'. They were warm, but Optimus didn't miss the chill in Ratchet's field.   
  
“You are still Prime,” Ratchet said, a stubborn set to his jaw. “The Matrix wasn't what mattered to us.”   
  
The door opened, startling both of them. Ratchet dropped Optimus' hand and shot to his pedes, lowering his helm. Optimus turned his gaze toward it, Megatron and Scrapper striding inside. Megatron looked pleased with himself.   
  
“Slave,” Scrapper said in a mild tone. “Bonecrusher has need of you.”   
  
Ratchet flinched, but he nodded. “Yes, Master Scrapper.”   
  
He cast Optimus a backward glance and then hurried for the door, only for Megatron to grab his arm as he passed. Ratchet froze, Optimus flinched, and even Scrapper went rigid. Megatron produced a thoughtful noise, his free hand tilting Ratchet's chin up, forcing the medic to look at him.   
  
“You told me he would live, medic,” Megatron said. His tone was mild, but Optimus had no doubt there was warning behind it.   
  
“I also said there was a chance he would offline,” Ratchet retorted. It was bluster. He was shaking and no one could have missed it. “But as you can see, he is still alive for you to torture. I thought you'd be happy.”   
  
Megatron's lips pulled into a slow smile. “Oh, I am.” His fingers flexed, squeezing, and Ratchet flinched. “But I also feel I have forgotten how appealing you are.”   
  
Scrapper started forward. “My Lord--”  
  
A single glance from Megatron had Scrapper retreating into silence. “How long until my pet is ready for use?”  
  
“You may take him with you, but he needs rest, not strenuous activity,” Scrapper replied and his visor slanted toward Ratchet with something that almost resembled concern.   
  
Megatron made a contemplative noise. “Good. Then get him up from the berth.” His gaze shifted back to Ratchet, thumb sweeping over the medic's lips. “I'm going to borrow this one, too. Just in case.”   
  
Ratchet's optics widened.   
  
Optimus would have lurched off the medberth if could have. As it was, he required Scrapper's assistance, his processor swimming dizzily.   
  
“Megatron,” Optimus forced out, using the berth to help keep himself upright. His chest keep settling and resettling around the emptiness in front of his spark chamber. “Leave him out of this. You have me. I won't... I won't even fight.”   
  
Megatron smirked. “I know you won't. But a little incentive never hurt anyone.”   
  
“Bonecrusher's going to whine about this for days,” Scrapper muttered from behind Optimus.   
  
He tweaked something back there and suddenly, Optimus could stand up straight. He was still dizzy, but it was easier to stand. A pinched nerve line perhaps.   
  
“Come along, pet,” Megatron said. He released Ratchet's face but kept a firm grip on the medic's arm. “I've been two days without any entertainment. I'm overdue. Scrapper, you can retrieve this one later.”  
  
“Ah. Yes, my lord.” Hydraulics hissed as Scrapper bowed.  
  
Optimus moved before he could think twice about it. He was not Prime, not anymore, but Ratchet was still his friend, still his to protect. He no more deserved Megatron's attention than anyone else.   
  
They left the med center, Megatron's grip on Ratchet's arm firm. Optimus limped in their wake, vents wheezing. His energy levels read a marginal thirty percent, appalling for a mech whose systems were overheated with self-repair. Optimus wanted to speak but found himself gasping instead. Dizziness swamped his processor.   
  
Fortunately, Ratchet was more than willing to fill the silence.   
  
“Don't you have real work to do, great and glorious leader?” Ratchet asked. His words were meant to be insulting, but the underlying tremor betrayed his anxieties.   
  
Megatron must have known it, too, because rather than respond with violence, he chuckled. “Always. But I am due a break now and again. Don't you agree?”  
  
“You certainly over-exert yourself. All that rape and torture must be exhausting. I can't imagine,” Ratchet retorted.   
  
“You would have to be a free mech to give it such a term,” Megatron replied, mildly bemused. “And your Master is within his rights to do with his belongings as he will.”  
  
“Unless his Master comes along,” Ratchet muttered.   
  
A rumbling laugh rose in Megatron's chassis. “You're learning.”   
  
Optimus' tanks churned. To speak of another mech's rights so callously... He shouldn't be surprised. But it's though Megatron had gone beyond punishing them for being Autobots and was instead turning them into machinery or accessories. As though they were no longer mecha.   
  
“Don't worry,” Megatron continued as they arrived at the Prime's Residence and stepped into the lift to ride it to the penthouse. “You'll be returned to him soon enough. I simply felt the need for a little variety this evening.” He flashed a smile of sharpened denta.   
  
“Consider me relieved,” Ratchet said, and he glanced past the warlord, catching optics with Optimus. There was wariness in his gaze, and apology, too.   
  
They didn't dare speak. Not with Megatron standing there, likely concocting some terrible and humiliating course of action.   
  
The lift chimed and deposited them on the top floor. Optimus followed Megatron and Ratchet off, but stumbled on nothing, his spark giving an abbreviated pulse. There was a brief, dizzying moment before Megatron grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.   
  
“What's wrong with him?” Megatron demanded.   
  
“That's generally what happens after trauma,” Ratchet snapped, though Optimus felt the prickle of a scan wash over his frame. “Maybe you shouldn't have torn the Matrix from his spark.”   
  
Megatron stiffened, his field coiling with offense. Optimus forced his frame into motion. He staggered against Megatron, purposefully sliding his overheated frame against the warlord's.   
  
The distraction worked, Megatron slanting a look down at him. “That eager, are we?” Megatron purred.   
  
“If it means access to a berth, yes.” Static laced his words, but it was gradually clearing.   
  
Megatron grinned and his free hand stroked down Optimus' backplate. “Then let us hurry.”   
  
Crisis averted. For now. Optimus swallowed down the nausea and let himself become obedient to Megatron's ministrations. If it meant he would leave Ratchet alone, perhaps even ignore him, all the better.   
  
Back in Megatron's hab-suite, he led them directly to the main room where he sat down on a chair and stared up at both Autobots. He crooked a finger at Ratchet.   
  
“Come here, medic,” he said. “You're first.”   
  
Optimus made a low noise of protest, starting forward, but a single look from Megatron froze him in place.   
  
“You'll get your turn,” Megatron said and he pulled Ratchet into his lap. He shamelessly groped the medic's panel, Ratchet's optics shuttering in response. “I might even manage to be gentle. So until then, you can watch. But on your knees.”   
  
Optimus worked his intake.   
  
Ratchet was sprawled over Megatron's lap, his back pressed to Megatron's front. One arm curled around his waist, taloned fingers tapping over his interface panel. The other hand had a firm grip around Ratchet's intake, one sharp thumb pressed to the delicate dermal plate and the main energon line beneath.   
  
Megatron had no need to voice his threat.   
  
Optimus lowered himself to his knees. “Don't hurt him.” The words were better a plea.   
  
“Do as I say and I won't have to.” Megatron grinned and nuzzled his helm against Ratchet's, glossa teasing at Ratchet's audial. “Will I, medic?”   
  
Ratchet cringed. His optics shuttered. “No, Master.” His tone was practiced, as was the relaxing of his frame.   
  
Optimus ached to see it.   
  
“Good,” Megatron purred and his optics met Optimus'. “Now let's have some fun, shall we?”   
  


-INTERLUDE-

  
  
He was climbing upward from the bowels of Cybertron when he got within receiving range of the planet-wide signals and his receiver pinged an update. Jazz found a stable ledge to rest upon as his vents cycled the stale, dusty air. He activated his broadcasting unit, all audio beaming straight to his processor to keep down on ambient noise.   
  
The holographic screen sprang to life from his left forearm. Jazz braced himself, prepared for any manner of broadcast. Megatron's depravity knew no bounds after all.   
  
The sight of Optimus Prime, set upon by no less than four Decepticons while a crowd cheered, was not something he could have anticipated. He would have thought Megatron to be far more possessive than that.   
  
Jazz worked his jaw. Nausea crawled up his intake. He'd seen a lot during the course of the war, a lot of terrible things. Logically, the sight of this was only a drop in the bucket. Jazz had certainly seen worse.   
  
He still couldn't disassociate himself from it.   
  
Anger cropped up around the disgust. It filled him up, his spark surging with fury, until he forced himself to close down the broadcast because he couldn't stop his engine from revving. His energy field was a frentic whirl. His plating clattered.   
  
Jazz stared into the dark of the underlevels and forced himself back into control. He had plans. He had to be patient. They were too outnumbered to even consider rushing into things.   
  
He pushed to his pedes and continued climbing, lest he be late for the meeting. The images wouldn't leave him alone. Optimus in pain. Optimus subjected to the attention of those monsters. How many others were suffering like that? Jazz didn't even know, for sure, how many Autobots were in Decepticon custody. Only the ones Megatron had gloated about.   
  
He passed through three sub-levels, anger giving him energy. His caution increased ten-fold. If Megatron caught him, execution would be a kinder fate. Jazz didn't know what Megatron would decide.   
  
He'd executed Ironhide; he'd allowed Ratchet to live.   
  
He'd executed Inferno; he'd kept Optimus for his personal pet.   
  
He'd made sure that every last one of their flight-capable mechs were killed. But he'd caught and kept Hound.   
  
Megatron was as unpredictable as ever.   
  
Jazz set his jaw in a firm line. He kept climbing. He would end Megatron if it was the last thing he did. Optimus wasn't in charge anymore.   
  
No more mercy.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“I told you not to watch that!”   
  
He snatched the receiver from Snarl's hands and shoved it into subspace before the other Dinobot could make another grab for it. He just barely resisted the urge to smash it instead. They might need it later. Plus, he was loath to destroy anything that Wheeljack had given them.   
  
Snarl's field lashed with indignation where it notched up against Grimlock's. “Me Snarl wanted to see.” His spines quivered.   
  
“It's not important,” Grimlock growled. “It's just to make you mad. Make you stupid. But we will not fall for it. We aren't stupid.” Not like Prime, he added, but he kept that to himself.   
  
The others didn't need to know it.   
  
Slag huffed. “You Grimlock don't make sense.”   
  
“Don't have to. You Slag and you Snarl just have to obey,” he retorted and glared at both of them. See if they pulled out another receiver and what he'd do. If he had to revert back to previous language packets to get his point across, he would.   
  
Grimlock didn't need to watch Megatron's little broadcasts to get angry. He was already furious enough. But anger made you reckless and do foolish things. He couldn't afford that.   
  
“What Dinobots doing anyway?” Slag grumbled. “We Dinobots alone. What point?”   
  
“Not alone,” Grimlock insisted. “Wheeljack's not dead. Ratchet's not dead. We'll rescue both. Defeat the Decepticons. And save Cybertron.”   
  
Snarl's gears ground with shock. “And how we do that?”   
  
Grimlock frowned. He hadn't quite figured that out yet. The largest problem was getting to Cybertron. The space bridge was an option, but it was always guarded by a rotating staff of Decepticons, some easier to take down than others. The larger concern was that Grimlock did not know what was on the other side.   
  
“Me Grimlock still working on plan,” he admitted. If only they had a means of contacting Cybertron. That would make working out the particulars a lot easier.   
  
Slag snorted. “You Grimlock scared.”   
  
“I not scared.” He raised a balled fist and Slag clamped his mouth shut. “Smart,” Grimlock corrected. Smart like the Autobots and his enemies never thought he was. “We watch. We wait. Then, we act.”   
  
Snarl dropped down to the ground, aggravation dark in his field. “Waiting boring,” he complained.   
  
“Better than dead,” Grimlock retorted.   
  
“Like him Sludge?” Slag said and his sneer made Grimlock angry all over again.   
  
It passed, however. He recognized in Slag the same thing he felt in himself: a helpless anger blunted by grief.   
  
“Yes,” Grimlock said as he leaned against a rock formation, arms crossed. “Like Sludge.”  
  
And Swoop, his mind supplied.   
  
Megatron would pay dearly for both of them.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The Rainmakers flew overhead, criss-crossing patterns that ensured they wouldn't miss anything. Wheeljack shrank down into the empty mine and prayed that his attention deflector continued to function properly.   
  
It was an anxious thirty minutes.   
  
He watched his energy levels tick down, the deflector drawing mercilessly upon his meager stores. But it was worth it to ensure he wasn't found. He'd seen what had become of the Autobots Megatron captured – death or slavery. Wheeljack knew what he preferred.   
  
Acid Storm and Sunstorm swept across the sky one more time and then they were gone. Wheeljack tracked the roar of their thrusters until they were dim echoes. He waited longer, in case they chose to double back.   
  
The Coneheads had done that just last week and Wheeljack had almost been caught. He'd wasted precious energy reactivating the deflector in a rush.   
  
At least the mines here provided some cover. There were unstable elements present, their very instability being the cause of abandoning the mine in the first place.   
  
When another ten minutes had passed in silence, Wheeljack allowed himself an ex-vent of relief. He disengaged the deflector and pulled himself out of the tiny crevasse where he'd wedged his frame. He stretched, cramped cables and hydraulics crackling with relief. Flakes of grit fluttered to the ground.   
  
He would need to hunt down energon again.   
  
Wheeljack consulted the old datamap he'd scrounged from the ruins of Ibelex. While most of Cybertron's landscape had been ruined by the war, there were a few landmarks that proved useful.   
  
Hmm. The closest sign of former civilization was a tiny mining outpost. He doubted there was anything to be found there but he supposed it couldn't hurt to look.   
  
He tucked the map back into his thigh panel and climbed out of the crevasse. At the top, he dusted his hands and quickly scanned the horizons. No Seekers in sight. And no sign of any ground-bound Decepticon troops either. They rarely ventured this far from Iacon anyway.   
  
Wheeljack oriented himself toward the mining outpost and shifted to alt-mode, sensors on full apart. His Earth rubber tires bumped across the blaster-pitted ground. It was silent, too. Silent and still. Unlike Earth. There was always noise on Earth.   
  
Noise like the subtle, barely noticeable ping on the edge of his comm suite. Wheeljack paused and popped back into root mode, helm tilting. It was on a little used frequency, one popular long before the war. One had to have certain equipment to even pick it up, not to mention knowledge of its existence.   
  
In fact, if Soundwave even knew about it, Wheeljack would eat his own spoiler.   
  
Wheeljack tapped into it and his optics rounded in surprise. It was a message, recorded and on auto-repeat, but he'd known that voice anywhere.   
  
_“This is Commander Jazz and I have a message for all surviving Autobots. It's time. No more hiding. We will not go quietly into the night. We will not vanish without a fight. We're going to live on. We're going to survive. And we're going to kick Megatron's aft.”_   
  
The last bit was a string of coordinates, rattled off so quickly Wheeljack had to listen to it twice to pick out the exact location.   
  
It was a risk. A huge risk.   
  
Wheeljack turned around, aiming himself in the direction of the coordinates. Two days drive. Well within the meeting time.   
  
It could be a trap. But what Decepticon would quote an Earth movie like that?   
  
It was a risk. It could be a trap. Did he dare take that chance?   
  
_No more hiding._   
  
Ratchet on the screen, caught and broken.   
  
Wheeljack threw himself into alt-mode, the poor scrape of his tired components a reflection of his current state. Before long, he wouldn't need Megatron to hunt him down to kill him.   
  
What did he have left to lose?  
  


0o0o0

  
  
Bumblebee closed his comm-suite and hopped down from the ridge. Being out in the open left him feeling twitchy anymore. It was safer in the dark.   
  
He'd had a close call with Shockwave's drones yesterday. Jazz would kick his aft if he knew how careless Bumblebee had been. But he'd been starving and his sensors had picked up an energon signal that caused his tanks to gurgle.   
  
Little had he known that energon signal was one of Shockwave's drones. Bumblebee had never backpedaled so quickly in his life.   
  
And now this.   
  
Bumblebee frowned as he retreated to the safety of a crashed ship, one of many nonsentient ones that had gone down in the early stages of the war. Hollowed out and stripped of anything useful, it had just enough of an outer shell to protect him from overhead scans.   
  
But Jazz's message... he couldn't ignore it either. It was a joy to hear his Commander's vocals. A relief to know that there were others out there, alive and free of Decepticon ownership. Unlike Ratchet and Hound and Prime.   
  
Bumblebee wished he'd never gotten his receiving array functional again. He could have lived without knowing what atrocities Megatron had committed.   
  
He tucked himself into the back, where he'd made something of a nest. He couldn't stay here for much longer, not for his own safety and certainly not if he wanted to meet with Jazz. But it had been nice to have something like a safe space. For however short a time.   
  
“Primus, Goldie. I didn't think we'd ever find you.”   
  
Bumblebee froze, his spark hiccuping. His hand shot to the side and he grabbed the heavy pipe he'd scavenged for a weapon. His optics tracked the dim of the shuttle, searching out the speaker.   
  
He didn't need to look to know who it was though. There were things not even a war and a four million year stasis could make you forget.   
  
The voice of your first love was one of them.   
  
“How did you?” Bumblebee asked, careful to keep his vocals barely above a whisper.   
  
“Luck. Intuition. A bit of the boss bot's smarts.” Rumble melted out of the shadow to Bumblebee's left, a cocky grin on his face. Then again, that was usual for Rumble.   
  
He planted his hands on his hips. “Ya can put the pipe down, ya know. I didn't come here to hurt you.”   
  
Bumblebee snorted and tightened his grip. “Right. And I'm supposed to believe that.” He glanced at a nearby port window, but couldn't see any movement outside the shuttle. “Why else would you come here?”   
  
“I'm hurt, Goldie, right in th' spark.” Rumble pressed a hand to his chestplate with a half bow. “We have our history, yeah, it's true. I thought it still meant somethin'.”   
  
Bumblebee shot him a sharp look. “I've had your piledrivers aimed for my chassis one too many times, Rumble. What do you want?”   
  
How many times over the course of the war had they been here? And by here, Bumblebee meant facing each other, on opposite lines, carrying on a terse conversation without resolution. Because Bumblebee would never betray the Autobots and Rumble had made a vow to Soundwave and there was an invisible wall between them, so thick as to be impenetrable.   
  
“I told th' boss you'd be prickly, but he sent me anyway.” The light behind Rumble's visor flashed. “I came ta give ya a message to carry to yer boss. Tell 'im Soundwave wants ta help.”   
  
Bumblebee blinked. “Gonna need a bit more explanation than that.”   
  
“Well, it's all yer gonna get.” Rumble flicked a hand at him. “Just tell 'im that Soundwave's not happy with what old Buckethead's up to. And that we got allies.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“Well, that's for us ta know and you ta find out, isn't it?” Rumble grinned. “So I'll just let ya get back ta whatever it is yer doin' and I'll leave and we'll both pretend this never happened if ya get caught. Deal?”   
  
Bumblebee narrowed his optics. “How am I supposed to believe you, Rumble?”   
  
“Guess you'll just have to trust me.”   
  
Right. Because a history of trusting Rumble or Frenzy had proven to be good for Bumblebee's health.   
  
“I don't,” Bumblebee said.   
  
“I know.” Something in Rumble's voice softened, even as he stepped back into the shadows. “But maybe there's still a chance to change that, yeah?”   
  
Bumblebee could have given chase. He didn't bother. Whether Rumble was lying or telling the truth, there was no point. Either Decepticons lay in wait for him just outside this shuttle and he was doomed, or Soundwave really did have a stake in this.   
  
He slumped back into his nest and tucked the metal pipe against his side. He played Jazz's message over and over. Rumble's, too.   
  
Bumblebee supposed he had a choice to make.   
  


***

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Ratchet, Ratchet/Optimus, Scrapper, Megatron/Optimus  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: shock collar, physical abuse, forced exhibitionism and voyeurism, fingering, forced spark merging, gagging, valve dom  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "The Host of Seraphim," Dead Can Dance

Optimus would call this one of his worst nightmares, except that not even his subconscious could have come up with such a scenario to torment him. Only Megatron was this cruel.   
  
Megatron pushed his knees apart, spreading Ratchet's legs further, until his panel was fully on display. Talons circled Ratchet's array over and over, tracing the seams of his concealed valve and spike.   
  
He nibbled on Ratchet's audial with a scrape of denta. “You know how this goes, medic. Open.”   
  
Ratchet shuddered, but his panel slide aside, revealing his valve.   
  
Optimus looked away. There was little he could do right now, but he could at least give Ratchet this courtesy.   
  
“No, Optimus, you are going to watch,” Megatron growled as Ratchet stifled a whimper.   
  
“For what purpose?” Optimus demanded, his fingers scraping at his thighs. It was all he could do not to shove to his pedes, rip Ratchet free from Megatron's hold, and fight back.   
  
The weight around his intake was so negligible, but at the moment, it kept him pinned to the floor. Helpless.   
  
“Because I told you to,” Megatron growled and Ratchet made another noise of distress, metal scraping on metal. “So that you understand your place.”   
  
Optimus ex-vented harshly. He forced his gaze back toward Ratchet, apology in his optics. He tried to pay attention to Ratchet's face alone, but his peripheral sensors followed the movements of Megatron's hand. The sharp plunge of taloned fingers into Ratchet's valve, over and over. The delicate pinch of Ratchet's anterior sensor that made him jerk. The barest sheen of lubrication.   
  
“That's better.” Megatron's voice was thick with satisfaction.   
  
He pulled his fingers free from Ratchet's valve and lifted his hand, pushing them toward Ratchet's mouth. “Suck, medic. Optimus, come closer. It seems your medic will need some assistance getting prepared for me.”   
  
Optimus frowned at Megatron, but he obeyed. He inched closer until he knelt on the floor between Megatron's knees, faced with Ratchet's bare array. The lewd sound of Megatron fragging Ratchet's mouth with his fingers grated on his audials.   
  
Megatron released his grip on Ratchet's intake and rested his hand on Optimus' helm, guiding him forward. “Put that mouth to use, Optimus.”   
  
Optimus suddenly understood why Ratchet kept whispering apologies.   
  
“Forgive me,” he murmured and did as Megatron commanded.   
  
He leaned forward, lips parting. His glossa flicked over the rim of Ratchet's valve, teasing the white-painted folds. It was something Optimus had done before willingly. Ratchet had always been a delight to orally pleasure.   
  
But Megatron watching them soured the experience, tainted what for Optimus had always been a fond memory. Something to keep him warm in his often empty berth.   
  
Ratchet made an aborted sound, his hips restless atop Megatron's thighs. His valve quivered. His bright red anterior node gave a small flicker of interest. It was probably the gentlest touch he'd received in some time.   
  
As humiliating as this was, Optimus resolved to at least provide some pleasure. The slicker Ratchet was, the less Megatron could hurt him. Optimus sealed his mouth around Ratchet's array and laved it with his glossa, treating every sensor he could reach with affection. His lips were gentle, caressing Ratchet's valve rim with little kisses.   
  
Megatron's engine purred with approval. “Make him overload, Optimus.” His hand lifted from Optimus' helm and began groping at Ratchet's frame.   
  
Ratchet made some noise around Megatron's fingers. His hands gripped the arms of the chair as though trying to ground himself. Optimus didn't dare look up at Ratchet and shuttered his optics. He was relieved when Megatron didn't order him to open them again. It made it easier to pretend that this was consensual.   
  
They were back on the Ark, tumbled into berth together, Ratchet tugging Optimus between his legs with eagerness. Ratchet crying out with pleasure as Optimus tended to his valve, nuzzled at his thighs, suckled upon his anterior node. Ratchet would buck and writhe beneath him before demanding that Optimus frag him now. Optimus would comply, sliding into Ratchet's lubricant-soaked valve as affection swelled into his spark.  
  
 _He'll be all right_ , Optimus always whispered. Because Ratchet drowned his fears and sorrows in interfacing and Optimus was willing to step in where Wheeljack could not. Better, even, were the times Wheeljack joined them and Optimus could watch them together, their steady bond both a delight and a reassurance.   
  
The fantasy shattered in the next moment when Optimus heard the click of an interface panel and the slick slide of a spike. Hot metal bumped against Optimus' jaw and he didn't have to look to know that Megatron had extended his spike and was now rubbing it against Ratchet's aft and the rim of his valve.   
  
He onlined his optics in time to see Megatron grip Ratchet's hips and lift him up. Optimus backed off just before Megatron pushed into Ratchet's valve, filling him to the hilt. Ratchet made a noise in his chassis, ex-venting a sharp burst.   
  
He was probably used to it, Optimus thought with disgust. The Constructicons were of a size with Megatron after all.   
  
“I didn't tell you to stop,” Megatron said with a fanged smirk. He circled his hips, grinding his spike in Ratchet's valve. “Your medic deserves pleasure, doesn't he, Optimus?”   
  
The suicidal urge to attack Megatron rose up again. He glared hotly, not that it fazed the warlord.   
  
Megatron hooked his arms under Ratchet's knees. He forced the medic into a wide splay that left nothing to the imagination, and highlighted the stretch of his valve around Megatron's girth.   
  
“Isn't that how Autobots work?” Megatron asked, all false innocence and generosity. “Should you not take care of each other?”   
  
Optimus glowered. “When we do so, it is generally with the consent of both parties. What you demand is nothing short of assault.”   
  
“I didn't ask for an accusation,” Megatron hissed and Ratchet whimpered when he tightened his grip, claws prickling into the medic's delicate dermal plate. “Do as I say, Optimus.”   
  
He narrowed his optics. “There will come a time, Megatron, when the threat of pain won't be enough,” he said, but he bent to the task in front of him.   
  
Pleasuring Ratchet was no difficult task, but the base of Megatron's spike was too near for Optimus to ignore it. He sucked at Ratchet's anterior nub and mouthed the cables at the join of hip and thigh.   
  
Above him, Megatron rumbled his acceptance. “Better,” he grunted. “Now. Medic. Extend your spike.”   
  
“I have a name,” Ratchet gritted out with a sharp huff.   
  
“You are a possession. You have as much title as I give you,” Megatron retorted. “Now extend your spike. Your former Prime wishes to service you.”   
  
Ratchet's gears ground, a terrible grating noise, but his panel snicked aside, only the tip of his spike poking from the sheath. He was barely aroused, or perhaps had been taught to keep his spike sheathed as long as possible. Optimus doubted the Constructicons made much use of it.   
  
Optimus needed no prompting to rise higher on his knees and pay attention to the sensor-rich head of Ratchet's spike. It was easier, again, to pretend that he was doing this of his own accord. As he worked his mouth and glossa, Ratchet pressurized into his mouth, the taut lines of his energy field relaxing enough to reach for Optimus.   
  
They took what comfort they could.   
  
A comfort that Megatron was quick to shatter when he chuckled and picked up the pace, slamming harder into Ratchet's valve.   
  
"Better," he said, his grip on Ratchet's knees causing the plating to buckle. His lips and denta left impressions on Ratchet's audials and the side of his neck. His engine revved, vibrating both Autobots. His energy field left no room for confusion.   
  
"So glad you're enjoying yourself," Ratchet near-snarled, his ventilations shallow and rapid. His hands were a death-grip on Megatron's arms, as though he could push himself up and off Megatron's spike.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I am, medic.” He gnawed on the join of Ratchet's neck column and shoulder, leaving a sizable dent behind. “Both you and your former Prime are where you belong. At my pedes and my service.”   
  
“Keep telling yourself that,” Ratchet growled with a truncated gasp. “All tyrants fall.”   
  
Pride swelled within Optimus. Beaten, enslaved, and turned into shareware they might be, but they were not defeated.   
  
Megatron, thankfully, laughed at Ratchet's defiance, rather than take violent action. “So you say, medic. But we shall see.”   
  
His thrusts increased in earnest, slamming into Ratchet with an audible crash of metal on metal. Optimus tried to pull back as the motion shoved Ratchet's spike down his intake, but Megatron dropped one of Ratchet's knees to grab Optimus' helm. He kept him pinned in place, shoving him further down on Ratchet's spike.   
  
Optimus tried to push back, arms bracing against the chair between Megatron's legs, but fingers hooked around his helm. Megatron kept him in place effortlessly and Optimus moaned around Ratchet's spike, redirecting his ventilations away from the spike down his intake.   
  
Ratchet made a noise, trapped between horror and pleasure. His spike was rigid, hot, streaming pre-fluid down Optimus' intake. All the worse as Megatron's thrusts made Ratchet's spike knock against the back of Optimus' intake, bruising the delicate lining.   
  
Megatron released Ratchet's other knee, wrapped his arm around Ratchet's waist, and plunged up into the medic. He growled, low and deep, and overloaded. Charge snapped out from beneath his plating, attacking Ratchet and Optimus both.   
  
His hand abruptly released Optimus' helm and Optimus scuttled back, coughing as his intake spasmed. He swallowed with a wince, the bruised mesh protesting motion. He massaged at his intake from the outside and dared a look up at Megatron and Ratchet.   
  
Megatron was circling his hips, transfluid seeping from Ratchet's valve. Ratchet's optics were offline, his face pinched with distaste. Megatron's hand dropped from his middle, curling around Ratchet's spike.   
  
“Tsk, tsk,” he said, peering down at Optimus. “What a poor excuse for a leader you are. He didn't overload.”   
  
Optimus glared. “I think the fault lies with you.”   
  
Megatron laughed. “Is that so? Well, then, you had better finish the job, hadn't you?” He grinned with a flash of denta and shoved Ratchet from his lap, roughly dislodging himself from Ratchet's valve.   
  
Ratchet yelped. Optimus winced. They collided.  
  
Ratchet fell to the floor, half-sprawled on top of Optimus. His plating was scorching hot, cooling fans working at max. He shook, too, but Optimus didn't know if touching him would make things worse or better.   
  
It was awkward to disentangle their limbs, and all the while Megatron watched, relaxing back into his chair. One hand leisurely stroked his spike as though teasing himself.   
  
“Frag him, Optimus,” Megatron said, leaning his helm on one fist, his elbow braced on the arm of the chair. “Show me an Autobot's gentleness.”   
  
“No.” Optimus' refusal came without second thought.   
  
“We're not going to perform for you,” Ratchet added with a growl.   
  
Megatron's optics burned. “Is that so?” he asked, sounding more bemused than angry. “And there's nothing I can do that will convince you otherwise.”   
  
Unease settled in Optimus' spark. Megatron still wore his fusion cannon. But would he fire at either of them?   
  
“We're still valuable,” Ratchet retorted, full of defiance, but Optimus was close enough to taste the disquiet in Ratchet's field. His plating audibly clattered.   
  
“You don't have to be intact to be useful,” Megatron reminded them.   
  
“But harming us would be counterproductive,” Optimus said.   
  
Megatron grinned. “Would it now?”   
  
Optimus jerked as his collar lit up. He flopped backward, struggling to catch himself as the electric fire raced through his lines. It wasn't the highest setting he'd ever felt, but it still hurt like the Pit. All of his sensor nodes screamed at him. His limbs flailed.   
  
He dimly heard Ratchet shout for him and Megatron laugh. His optics flickered.   
  
Then it was over. It was a warning, Optimus realized as he stared up at the ceiling, panting. He felt hot and aching, as though he'd just onlined after surgery and new components were still settling into place.   
  
Ratchet was there then, hands roaming as they checked him for damage, his field lit with fury and frustration. Optimus sympathized.   
  
_Surrender what you can afford to lose._  
  
At what point, Optimus wondered, would he prefer death?  
  
He reached out, grabbed Ratchet's hand, caught his medic's gaze.   
  
_I'll go down this road with you,_ he wanted to say. _But not if you don't wish it of me._  
  
For all that Optimus hoped, perhaps Ratchet no longer did.   
  
Ratchet sighed and bowed his helm. He squeezed Optimus' hand.   
  
“Have I convinced you?” The slow, slick noise of him stroking himself was an obscene accompaniment to the low command.   
  
Ratchet slanted Megatron a look. “Do you have a preference for your show, my lord?” he demanded, tone acidic and far from deferential.   
  
Megatron's engine rumbled. “Surprise me.”   
  
Making it their choice was not a mercy. Optimus tried to lever himself up, managed to get his elbows beneath him, but movement was painful. His joints ached, his lines were still afire with sensation and would be for some time.   
  
“How gracious of you,” Optimus muttered.   
  
“I am very gracious,” Megatron retorted and made himself comfortable, touching his own spike teasingly. “And if you make it a good show, I might even be inclined to be generous.”   
  
Ratchet snorted. “Right.” His gaze shifted to Optimus. “How do you...?”  
  
At this point, there was nothing sacred. To Optimus, it didn't matter. He would much prefer that Ratchet choose whatever made him comfortable.   
  
“Your discretion,” he replied.   
  
“I'd rather not do this at all,” Ratchet hissed, frustration writ into his face.   
  
Optimus' gaze softened. “That, unfortunately, is not an option.” He took Ratchet's hand, waiting for the medic to protest and when he didn't, brought it to his lips. He kissed Ratchet's fingers. “At least give me this.”   
  
“Fine.” Ratchet gritted out. “Do you mind if I...?”  
  
“Whatever you want.” Optimus tried for a reassuring smile, but judging by Ratchet's expression he fell short.   
  
“I'm growing bored,” Megatron interjected.   
  
“Primus forbid that,” Ratchet muttered, rolling his optics.   
  
He reclaimed his hand from Optimus, but only to position himself better between Optimus' knees. One hand rested on Optimus' panel, fingers rubbing around the seams. “Open for me?”   
  
His imagination had never been the greatest. Even so, Optimus hoped to pretend. So he pushed his thighs further apart, triggered both panels open, and offlined his optics. The tentative, gentle touch of Ratchet's fingers was almost alien to him. He'd learned to brace himself for pain. But this was... nice.   
  
Ratchet's fingers traced around the rim of his valve. They flirted across his anterior node, spreading warmth through his array. Optimus' legs relaxed, falling open invitingly, and two of Ratchet's fingers pushed into his valve, achingly slow. The inner ring of sensors lit up with pleasure. His engine purred.   
  
“Stroke yourself, Optimus,” Megatron commanded, always quick to shatter the fantasy.   
  
Optimus grimaced but obeyed. He slid a hand down to wrap fingers around his spike. He kept his grip light, stroking his thumb over the head of his spike. Megatron wanted a fragging show? Fine. If it kept Megatron's hands off them, all the better.   
  
“Lick him, medic.”   
  
Ratchet huffed but there was the distinct sound of hydraulics shifting, followed by the removal of fingers from Optimus' valve.   
  
Optimus had to bite back a groan as slick warmth covered his valve. His hips bucked of their own accord, sensors singing of pleasure. He rocked toward the joy of Ratchet's mouth and tucked his free hand under his back so that Megatron would not see him claw at the floor. His face likely gave enough away as it was.   
  
Lubricant slicked his valve. His calipers cycled into readiness. Heat pooled in his array. Ratchet mouthed his anterior node and his fingers returned to Optimus' valve, stirring up the pleasure. Optimus couldn't remain still anymore, his frame shifting on the floor. He directed all of his sensors toward Ratchet, only dimly registering the noises Megatron made, intent on focusing on Ratchet alone.   
  
It was the closest to true pleasure he'd had in months.  
  
“Enough,” Megatron growled. “Take him.”   
  
Ratchet drew back with a parting kiss to Optimus' node.   
  
“Optimus, on your knees.” Megatron's vocals were thick with both arousal and amusement. “Chest on the floor. And look at me when he takes you.”   
  
It took painful effort to turn over. The electric lash lingered. His joints ached. His cables throbbed. But he managed, presenting his aft to Ratchet even as he turned his helm, looking up at a smirking Megatron. The warlord's hand was painted in his own pre-lubricant, his optics smoldering with heat.   
  
“You are where you belong, Optimus,” Megatron purred, one pede lifting to nudge against Optimus' side. “It suits you.”   
  
Anger burned within him. “You are a petty tyrant, Megatron,” Optimus said. His valve dripped lubricant to the floor. He hated himself for startling when he felt Ratchet's hands on his aft and the medic's presence between his legs.   
  
Ratchet's field was familiar, comforting, welcoming. But his last experiences were all ones of shame and humiliation and Optimus couldn't shake the echoes of that painful sensation.   
  
“Don't delude yourself into thinking you'd be any different.”  
  
“I would not have made you slaves!” Optimus snapped, shoving his elbows beneath him to look up and pin Megatron with a glare. “I would not have humiliated you and debased you!”   
  
Megatron scooted forward, pede slamming down on Optimus' back, pushing him down against the floor once more. “You would have imprisoned us, forced us to change, no doubt executed those of us who refused. Your future is no better than mine.”   
  
Optimus' spinal strut creaked. He winced.   
  
“I would have had peace,” he said, ventilations squeezing within him. “I would have tried. What you do is only steeped in revenge and hatred. It is not revolution you sought, but power. You've become the very thing you sought to destroy!”   
  
Megatron's field flooded the room, his arousal eclipsed only by his rage. He stood, pede slamming down on Optimus, grinding him to the floor.   
  
“Mega--”  
  
“Silence!” Megatron snarled, hand whipping out. The sharp smack of metal on metal echoed.   
  
Ratchet, indeed, lapsed into silence, but his hands tightened on Optimus' hips.   
  
Megatron's mass bore down. Optimus' frame creaked. His cooling fans sputtered. His vision filled with intermittent bursts of static.   
  
This is it, Optimus thought. He prepared himself for the sound of a fusion cannon cycling into readiness, for Megatron stomp him until his chassis split open and his spark was bared.   
  
The thought was almost not so frightening anymore.   
  
“Medic, I gave you an order,” Megatron snarled, grinding his heel down.   
  
Optimus couldn't help the whimper of pain that escaped him. If Ratchet replied, he didn't hear it, but he did feel the tentative press of a spike at his entrance.   
  
“You are nothing,” the warlord continued, his weight bearing Optimus down. “I have beaten your so-called army. I have retaken my planet. I have defeated you and I have destroyed that bauble. You are nothing, Optimus, not even a Prime.”  
  
Ratchet slid into him, the gentleness of his thrust at dissonant odds with the pain Megatron's mass caused upon his chassis. Optimus grimaced, his array primed and hot, valve clutching eagerly at Ratchet's spike. Ratchet's fingers kneaded at his cables as if in apology, but he could feel nothing of the medic's field.   
  
“As the victor, it is my right to do with you and yours as I will,” Megatron snarled as Optimus' chassis creaked a warning. His windshield splintered. “Is that not the lesson your kind taught me, down in the filth and grime? Those with the power make the rules?”  
  
“It makes you no better than the mechs you hate,” Optimus gasped out. If Megatron was going to hurt him, then so be it. What had silence gained him but humiliation? What did he live for? “You've become them.”   
  
Megatron growled. Something in Optimus' back snapped and he cried out, pain making him dizzy.   
  
“Optimus!” Ratchet whispered urgently, everything in his voice speaking of caution. Warning him, perhaps, to be silent.   
  
“Yes, Optimus, listen to your medic,” Megatron said and there was a rustle, a shifting of weight, and Ratchet made a muffled noise of pain. “You may have a death wish, but I don't think he does.”   
  
Optimus shook with anger. He pressed his lips together. His frame ached. Ratchet's spike sat within him and it suddenly felt as invasive as Megatron's own. Optimus' fingers scraped the floor. His engine tripped into a higher pitch.   
  
“Nothing to say now?” Megatron growled.   
  
“No.” He had to force out the word.   
  
Megatron's pede bore down on him. Something else snapped. Optimus felt the warm trickle of energon, his processor reporting a minor tear.   
  
“No?”   
  
Optimus ground his denta. “No... sir.”   
  
Megatron laughed. “My, but I like the sound of that.” His mass eased off, though his pede remained. “Medic, continue. Optimus, stay silent, unless you have something appropriately humble to say.”   
  
Ratchet started to move, a slow and steady glide of his spike in and out of Optimus' valve, teasing the delicate sensors within.   
  
“Oh. It looks your master has come to retrieve you,” Megatron murmured.   
  
The sound of the door sliding open was barely audible over the noise of Megatron's roaring fans. Optimus couldn't see who was entering, but he assumed it was a Constructicon.   
  
“Lord Megatron.” Scrapper. Optimus recognized his vocals. “You're busy. I can return?”   
  
“No, Scrapper. I'm through with this one. You may take him. My pet and I need to have a discussion about his duties.”   
  
Ratchet's field spiked with apprehension.   
  
“Yes, my lord.”   
  
Ratchet's spike left him and Optimus' valve twitched, empty and unsated. He felt Ratchet move from between his thighs, taking the comfort of a familiar field with him. Optimus would have keened for the loss, had he not locked such a sound within himself. The last thing he needed was to give Megatron more ammunition.   
  
“He behaved, I trust?” Scrapper asked.   
  
Turning his helm was an agonizing motion, but Optimus forced himself to do so. He could see, from the edge of his vision, Scrapper looking Ratchet over. He frowned at the fluid staining Ratchet's thighs. Ratchet, for his part, did not look up at either Decepticon, but his hands had formed fists.   
  
He had a mark on his faceplate, a dent in one cheekarch. Megatron had struck him.   
  
“I would suggest, Scrapper, that if he does not have need of his vocalizer, you remove it,” Megatron said and his weight abruptly vanished from Optimus' back.   
  
Optimus gasped for a ventilation, his plating fluffed out to ease the pain of cramped lines.   
  
“Insolent then.” The disapproval in Scrapper's tone was unmistakable. “I see. I will be sure to rectify that.”   
  
“See that you do.”   
  
Optimus got his hands beneath him, pushing his chassis off the floor. His windshield dripped glass beneath him. He ached.   
  
He looked up, and all he could see was the indomitable Ratchet, bruised and battered and beaten, helm bowed, and optics dim.   
  
Anger rose within him, never truly extinguished from earlier. Besides, Scrapper now stood between Megatron and Ratchet.  
  
“We are not possessions,” he spat. He turned his helm toward Megatron, affixing the warlord with a glare.   
  
Megatron was too quick. Optimus saw the pede coming, but couldn't scramble out of the way before it slammed into his side, throwing him onto his back. Something crumpled and he tasted energon. He tried to roll to his side and his pedes, but Megatron was there again, without words this time.   
  
A stomp to his chest drove the ventilations from Optimus. His vision fritzed. His audials knocked into reboot. A kick to the side sent him rolling again. He tried to get his limbs beneath him, get to his pedes. Damage warnings scrolled through his processor. Mass settled over his frame again, trapping him on his back, and a hand wrapped around his intake, slamming his helm down.   
  
Optimus shouted, scrabbling at the wrist, his senses spinning. Too many warnings. Too much pain. He thought he heard voices, more scraping of metal on metal. His engine raced. He heard snarling.   
  
His helm was slammed down again. Dizziness replaced everything. Optimus gasped, sight and sound spinning around him. The hand vanished from his throat and fingers like iron bands wrapped around his wrists, slamming them onto the floor above his helm. The searing heat of Megatron's frame loomed over him.   
  
“No,” Megatron growled, so close to Optimus' audial it was unmistakable. “Stay. So that the medic can see how beaten you are.”   
  
Optimus forced his optics to reboot, fuzzy as his vision was. One of his optics must have cracked; it kept reporting errors. But he could see enough, could see Megatron looming over him, gaze like hot coals.   
  
Optimus' wrists were transferred to one hold. Megatron's free hand pawed at his chestplates, finding some hidden catch that forced them open. A catch that had not been present before. Optimus' chestplates sprang open, as did his secondary armor, the light of his spark spilling into view between them, no longer muffled by the matrix.   
  
Optimus froze. His vocalizer wouldn't engage. It spat static. He heard a scuffle, a muffled yell, felt panic and didn't know if it was his own or not.   
  
There was a second click, the sound of mechanisms shifting aside, the harsh grate of barely used gears. A second light filled the space between he and Megatron. Optimus hissed static, his chassis rising upward, drawn by the proximity of another spark. His frame craved the contact.   
  
“This is the last thing I've yet to claim,” Megatron growled.   
  
Both hands wrapped around Optimus' wrists again, pinning them down. He couldn't move his legs either. Megatron had planted himself across Optimus' thighs. The warlord crouched over him like an animal, caging him in place. His chassis lowered by a fraction and the furthest edge of his spark reached for the radiating arms of Optimus'.   
  
Optimus frantically rebooted his vocalizer and shrank down against the floor. He shook his helm, mouth opening, a static burst emerging. His pedes scraped at the floor. His ventilations were so rapid that they shook his frame.   
  
His vocalizer engaged.   
  
“Stop!” Optimus shouted, gasping as Megatron dropped closer and the distant edges of their sparks came together, pleasure flirting between them, as automatic as physical sensors on the frame.   
  
Optimus moaned, a painful tremble wracking his frame. “Megatron, I beg of you, don't do this,” he said, static lacing his words. His vents hiccuped.   
  
“Too late, Optimus.” Megatron's fingers flexed around his wrists. The heat of his ventilations surrounded Optimus. “I won't be happy until I have all of you.”   
  
“Please!”   
  
It fell on deaf audials. Megatron bent down, their sparks coming into contact, and Optimus thrashed. Energy lashed and knitted together, pleasure scorching through him, intermingled with pain. Optimus threw his helm back and screamed, the core of Megatron thrusting down upon him as surely as his spike had taken Optimus so many times.   
  
Optimus didn't return the pulses and that made the pain worse, made him feel bombarded by Megatron's strength. His very presence seemed to wrap around Optimus' spark, swallowing him whole. Another cry caught in his vocalizer and Optimus thrashed, not that it mattered.   
  
Megatron's weight settled over him, the edges of his chestplate notching against the edges of Optimus' own, leaving only the tiniest gaps for spark light to peer through. His spark beat at Optimus', off-rhythm pulses that snapped charge between the two coronoas.   
  
Optimus moaned, turning his helm away as Megatron brought his face closer. Megatron took this as invitation and nibbled at Optimus' intake, all but purring. His spark thrust down at Optimus' and he shivered. He couldn't hear anything but the frantic whirl of his vents, Megatron's pleased rumblings, and the huffing of Megatron's vents. His own vocalizer devolved to spitting static again.   
  
Charge crested and rose. He felt Megatron's spark mingling with his, giving him a taste of hunger and need and triumph and something bitterly sharp, like grit and scorched energon and ash. Optimus choked on nothing and shuddered when Megatron's spark thrust down on his again and again, a penetrating rhythm that stripped away his ability to think.   
  
Pain and pleasure intermingled. He could feel the charge building within him, his frame shaking with it. Heat flooded every line, every sensor. His systems cycled into readiness, spike spiraling free, valve squeezing, pushing out the lubricant Ratchet had drawn. The head of his spike kept nudging against Megatron's aft, a maddening sensation that was both too much and not enough.   
  
Optimus moaned a broken sound.   
  
His spark retreated, but there was nowhere for it to go and the pull of another spark, so tantalizingly close, was too much to retreat. He couldn't stop himself from reaching for Megatron, knitting their energies together, pulsing in sync. Couldn't stop the rise and fall of his frame, matching the pulses of their spark. Couldn't be rid of the pleasure that stripped away his control.   
  
Megatron purred approval, nipped at his intake and audials and took the tip of one antennae into his mouth and bit at it.   
  
Optimus convulsed. He offlined his optics and swallowed down a rising purge. Megatron's spark thrust down on him, hot enough to burn, scorch the inside of his chassis. There was no escaping it, not the mass of Megatron's frame above him, or the stroking energy of Megatron's spark within him.   
  
It was a fresh agony, a raw agony, and overload was more relief than pleasure when it struck him, lighting up his frame. Optimus' engine whined, his spark flaring, only to be swallowed by Megatron's as the warlord was drawn into his own overload. There was a moment where all Optimus could sense was Megatron, the taste of the other mech vile on his glossa and in his frame, and then mercifully, it went away.   
  
Optimus moaned a sick sound. Megatron released his wrists and drew back, their sparks reluctantly disentangling. The overload sapped Optimus' energy, but did nothing to ease the physical charge. His spike throbbed; his valve ached.   
  
He lowered his arms, grabbed his chestplates, and shoved them closed.   
  
Megatron made a low noise in his chassis. “Very nice, Optimus,” he said and shifted his weight, leaning back, smooth armor brushing over Optimus' spike. “But we're not done yet.”   
  
Optimus forced his optics online, the world spinning around him, and he gasped when Megatron abruptly sank down, taking Optimus' spike to the hilt. The eager calipers of his valve clutched at Optimus' spike, tingles of charge igniting every sensor node.   
  
There was no pleasure in it. Optimus ached. Energon trickled free somewhere in his substructure where Megatron had kicked him earlier. It felt as though someone had scraped the inside of his spark chamber with acid.   
  
Optimus' arms crossed over his chestplate, though it was far too late to protect himself. It took great effort to force his optics online and all he could see was Megatron riding his spike, chestplates at least closed. The warlord's face was filled with ecstasy, one hand pumping his spike.   
  
Optimus couldn't watch. He covered his face with a hand, more than aware that Scrapper and Ratchet were still fragging here. They had watched the whole thing, were still watching, and there wasn't a single piece of his frame that Megatron hadn't violated. Optimus shook and the sound that built in his vocalizer had no name.   
  
He counted and he waited and he endured until finally, Megatron overloaded above him, splattering Optimus' abdomen with his release. The pull of his calipers dragged an overload from Optimus as well, but it was a thin thing, a purely physical response. He didn't feel pleasure, just an emission of transfluid and charge.   
  
Megatron stood and Optimus slipped from his valve. He couldn't retract his spike or close his panel fast enough and he turned on his side, away from the warlord. Motion was agony, but compared to the rest, it wasn't the worst.   
  
His chassis ached. His array throbbed. His spark hurt.   
  
“That was... quite the show, my lord,” Scrapper said, audibly clearing static from his vocalizer.   
  
“It was necessary.” Megatron sounded smug, too proud of himself. “You need to make it clear, Scrapper. Make them understand their place.”   
  
“You certainly, uh, accomplished that.” There was a rustle, a shift of weight. “Would you like me to tend to your pet?”   
  
A long moment of silence.   
  
“No,” Megatron said at length. “The pain is a lesson. A reminder that I am only merciful when I am pleased.”   
  
“I understand. Shall I take my leave then?”   
  
Megatron must have made some dismissive motion because Optimus heard the sound of their pedesteps retreating. He didn't know if Ratchet looked back. He didn't know the look on Ratchet's faceplate. He didn't want to know.   
  
The door slid open. The door slid shut. There was silence. Unless Optimus counted his rattling ventilations and the clicking of his vocalizer. Two reboots and it was barely functional.   
  
Optimus listened to the sound of Megatron moving around his quarters, his field occasionally touching upon Optimus', assaulting Optimus with his triumph.   
  
The pedesteps came closer, shaking the floor. They circled around Optimus' frame until Megatron came into view. He crouched, looming over Optimus.   
  
“Have I beaten you?” Megatron asked. His tone was mild, off-hand.   
  
Disgust churned within Optimus. He lowered his hand, saw Megatron near him, an energon cube in one hand, helm tilted. Crimson optics were almost curious, though malevolence glowed behind them.   
  
“You...” Optimus paused, rebooted his vocalizer a third time to clear the static. “You are a monster.”   
  
“I've been called worse.” Megatron took a long sip of the energon and lowered the cube, swirling around the contents.   
  
Optimus' tanks clenched. His levels hovered around twenty five percent and lowered incrementally. His self-repair, as stunted as it was, had already found the leaks.   
  
“You are worse,” Optimus muttered.   
  
Megatron smirked. His free hand dragged down Optimus' frame, resting at the apex of his thighs, casually fingering Optimus' closed panels. “If I am a monster, I am one you created.”   
  
“I am not my predecessor, Megatron. I never was. You fight against an institution that no longer exists.”   
  
“I know it doesn't.” Megatron rose to his pedes, looking down at him. “Because I defeated your armies and destroyed your bauble. Now get up.”   
  
Optimus ground several gears. “I cannot.”   
  
An answer Megatron would not accept. He leaned down, grabbed Optimus' arm, and hauled him to his pedes. Optimus gasped, his shoulder protesting, and fought to get his pedes beneath him. His vision swam. He wobbled and tilted against Megatron, a parody of an embrace that made him shudder.   
  
“You used to be stronger,” Megatron commented.   
  
“I used to be many things.” His tank clenched. Standing, the scent of energon was stronger. It was a taunt.   
  
Worse was the proximity of their chestplates. Optimus' spark sensed Megatron's, a recent visitor, and surged within his chassis. His fans clicked on with loud rattling.   
  
“Most importantly, right now, you are mine,” Megatron said.   
  
He drained the last of the energon, tossed the empty cube and gripped Optimus' chin with his hand. He had no energy to fight back, not even when Megatron tilted his helm up and leaned down, kissing him.   
  
Optimus groaned, a mix of revulsion and relief, when energon trickled past his lips. It was warmed from Megatron, and tasted sweet. He shivered as the energon slipped down his intake and into his tanks, stronger than anything he'd had in months.   
  
Megatron's glossa followed it, sliding into Optimus' mouth with an almost gentleness. He coaxed out Optimus' glossa, sucking on it, their mouths meeting in something like a kiss.   
  
The pain was easier to bear.   
  
Optimus moaned and lifted a hand, trying to push Megatron away, not that it worked. He recoiled, but Megatron's mouth followed him, licking and nipping at his mouth with little pleased sounds. His engine purred. Two fingers stroked a gentle path down Optimus' neck cables.   
  
Megatron made a purring noise. “The berth,” he said, against Optimus' mouth. “Now.”   
  
A shiver raced across his frame, thick with dread. Optimus' internals knotted together. He swallowed down the nausea and let Megatron drag him toward the berth. What good had fighting done him?   
  
The sweet energon warmed in his tanks, raising his energy levels to a balmy thirty-five percent. But the ache in his frame seemed to negate that. He felt listless. As if Megatron had fragged the fight out of him.   
  
He didn't quite know what to do with a Megatron who had gone so quickly from violent to near-gentle either. Megatron covered Optimus' frame with his own, sought out Optimus' mouth for another probing kiss, and then mechhandled Optimus until he lay on his front. Glass tinkled from his broken windshield, tiny shards that glittered against the berth cover.   
  
Megatron's mouth roamed over his helm, teasing over his audials. His knees pushed between Optimus' thighs, blanketing Optimus' frame. He rocked against Optimus' panel, demanding entrance, and Optimus resigned himself.   
  
He slid back the covers, bared himself, and shuddered when Megatron pushed into him. He tucked his elbows underneath his frame, burying his face in his arms. Megatron rocked into him, spike grinding against Optimus' sore nodes.   
  
His denta nibbled at Optimus' antenna. He had no real pace, no real rhythm. His spike nestled in Optimus' valve, buried to the hilt, but didn't really move. His frame settled heavier on top of Optimus, Megatron shifting around as though he wanted to get comfortable. The edges of their plating notched together. Megatron curled around him, pinning Optimus in place.   
  
Optimus could barely ventilate. Megatron was hot, heavy, and all Optimus could sense was the warlord. The scent of Megatron's polish, the heat of his ex-vents. The suffocating press of his field. Megatron's engine ticked on, purring, vibrating Optimus' frame.   
  
Still, he didn't move. His hips stirred in bare movements, but he didn't thrust. He seemed content to rest his spike in Optimus' valve. One arm shoved beneath Optimus, curling around his waist. The other rested on the berth, further caging Optimus within Megatron's frame. Even if he tried, he could not escape. He was both pinned and taken.   
  
Megatron's spike throbbed in his valve, teasing the sensory nodes. He seemed disinclined to thrust toward overload.   
  
“What are you doing?” Optimus demanded.   
  
“Enjoying my prize,” Megatron replied. His ventilations were evening out, his frame going languid atop Optimus.   
  
Optimus squirmed, which only resulted in scraping their armor together and further notching Megatron against him. “I cannot ventilate.”   
  
“You won't offline. Besides, I'm quite comfortable.” Megatron mouthed at his antennae again, denta providing just enough pressure to send a sharp zip down Optimus' spinal strut. “Your frame welcomes me.”   
  
Optimus ex-vented, not that it had anywhere to go. His valve kept fluttering, grasping at Megatron's spike as though confused. Sensation simmered in his array, not quite pleasure or pain, just sensation.   
  
Megatron nuzzled the back of his helm, the quick flickers of his field settling. “You make for quite the convenient berthmate, Optimus.”   
  
“Did you want a lover or a toy, Megatron? Because I think you're confused as to which of the two I am.” Optimus squirmed again. His chassis ached and Megatron's mass atop him did not help.   
  
The warlord chuckled. “You are whatever I want you to be, Optimus. Now be quiet. I have work to do tomorrow.”   
  
“Then disengage.”   
  
“No, I don't think I will.” Megatron nibbled at the back of his neck. “I'm enjoying this.”   
  
“You would,” Optimus muttered.   
  
Megatron did not respond. Instead, his ventilations evened, his frame went fully lax, and his field turned quiescent.   
  
Of all the...  
  
Optimus ground his denta. His calipers twitched.   
  
He would not recharge at all.   
  


****


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Soundwave, Bludgeon/Unidentified Cons/Tracks, (in flashback: Jazz, Smokescreen, Silverbolt)  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: physical abuse, observed gangbang, humiliation, on-screen character death, possibly suicide, forced oral, flashbacks  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Battle Cry," Imagine Dragons

Optimus was pulled from his light doze when Megatron's engine revved, the warlord's energy field rippling with restrained anger.   
  
“Clarify,” Megatron growled.   
  
Groggy, Optimus tried to surface from near-recharge. But his processor wouldn't respond as quickly as he liked, having shut down in response to being overheated.   
  
Megatron's frame still rested above him, an arm wrapped around Optimus' waist. He was, Optimus realized with a shift of his hips, also still within Optimus as well. His spike was firmly emplaced within Optimus' valve. It hadn't depressurized for the entire course of Megatron's recharge.   
  
“Explain to me how you could let this happen, Motormaster,” Megatron continued and it became clear that he wasn't talking to Optimus, but to someone over comms. “Those who fail do not deserve rewards. Shall I reclaim your prize?”  
  
Megatron must have noticed Optimus was online, because his hand started to move, sliding from around Optimus' waist further down. He palmed the panel concealing Optimus' spike, rubbing it.   
  
“I don't want any excuses,” Megatron hissed and he circled his hips, reminding Optimus' valve that his spike was still present and eager. “I'll send someone else since clearly you are unsuited for the task.”   
  
His fingers flirted lower, finding Optimus' valve. They traced the rim of it, where his spike moved incrementally. His thumb and forefinger flirted with Optimus' anterior node, abruptly pinching it.   
  
Optimus buried his face in his arms, swallowing down a sharp cry. A tremble raced through his frame. The brief recharge had done nothing in terms of repairs. His self-repair made his frame hot, responding as well as it could to all the damage. But Optimus was underenergized and undernourished. He was also laying on a berth covered in tiny shards of glass.   
  
There was no comfort to be found.   
  
“There are only three of them!” Megatron snapped, punctuating it with a sharper thrust into Optimus' valve.   
  
Barely lubricated, it scraped against Optimus' inner lining. There wasn't nearly enough lubricant and transfluid left from the previous cycle. It burned and Optimus had to swallow down another cry.   
  
Bad enough that his chamber still ached, that he felt scored from the inside out.   
  
“I will send Barricade's team to assist,” Megatron continued, his tone seething with irritation. His thrusts into Optimus matched his anger, but at least his manipulation of Optimus' anterior sensor had eased. “I won't accept failure, Motormaster.”   
  
His tone had a note of finality to it, one that was confirmed when he turned his attention to Optimus. He mouthed at the back of Optimus' helm, denta grazing the delicate components.   
  
“My apologies,” he said and picked up the rhythm, thrusts sharpening. “That was quite rude of me.”   
  
Optimus grunted at a particularly forceful thrust. “By all means, take the call. The less attention you pay to me, the better.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. His fingers began to move again, petting Optimus' anterior node. Optimus' array dared to warm, a soft pleasure blooming in the wake of the gentle touches.   
  
“You're so ungrateful.” Megatron ex-vented heat down on Optimus as his mouth explored Optimus' helm and neck.   
  
Optimus ground his denta. His valve sensors responded to the careful movements of Megatron within him. Lubricant welled, easing Megatron's passage. His deepest node throbbed to life.   
  
“You've yet to offer me anything I actually want,” Optimus retorted.   
  
The sound of their frames scraping together grated in his audials. Megatron's rumbling engine was like an itch in his lines. His internals crawled with disgust.   
  
Megatron rubbed circles around Optimus' anterior node, until it throbbed at his touch. “That'll change,” he said. He nibbled at Optimus' antennae, provoking a deep shiver.   
  
Optimus groaned. It was impossible to fight it. Megatron was trying very hard to arouse Optimus and unfortunately, he was succeeding.   
  
“And I'm not leaving until you overload, Optimus,” Megatron said. His hips ground against Optimus' aft. His spike raked against rings of sensors, lighting them up with pleasure. “This'll last as long as I need it to.”   
  
Bastard. The human term seemed apt right now.   
  
“I don't want what you offer,” Optimus hissed out.   
  
“What you want is not a factor in this.” Megatron's mouth wandered up, finding and taking an antenna between his lips. His spike raked against Optimus' internal nodes and a burst of heat spread through Optimus' array.   
  
He swallowed down a moan, finding it far too easy to succumb to the pleasure. His frame was starved for it, for the gentle touches on his nub and the slide of a spike against his lubricant slick walls. Megatron's pace was just enough to rock him toward overload, to tighten the coil of need within him until Optimus couldn't fight against it.   
  
His spark cried out for it, aching with the need to be soothed, to be cherished. Unbidden, he was reminded of his Autobots, no particular one special to him, but all of them unique and treasured. So eager and willing to share pleasure.   
  
A sob caught in his vocalizer. Optimus clenched his hands into fists, tightened his internals, fought against the waves of pleasure, but it was a tide he couldn't break. Megatron's ministrations were too much.   
  
Overload stole over him, the moan trapped in his intake and buzzing through his vocalizer. His valve spasmed around Megatron's spike. His spark whirled, aching where the rasp of Megatron's spark had cut him.   
  
Megatron chuckled darkly, slid his hand to push hard against Optimus' abdominal plate, and pinned him to the berth. He drew back and proceeded to frag Optimus hard, without mercy, his spike intermittently catching on the spasming calipers.   
  
It hurt and Optimus pressed his face into his hands to muffle his cries. He clenched his hands into fists, telling himself it would be over soon, even as his frame shook with lingering bursts of pleasure. As it faded, the pain set in, reminding him that his frame was a litany of bumps and dents and scars and broken things.   
  
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a washrack. He felt filthy, inside and out, and Primus, wouldn't Megatron just finish already.   
  
For once, his prayers were answered. Megatron shoved into him and then abruptly pulled out. He overloaded, spike spurting all over Optimus' lower back, his aft, his thighs. It dripped into his valve and splattered the berth between his legs.   
  
Optimus cringed.   
  
Megatron purred and nuzzled the back of Optimus' helm. His mostly pressurized spike rubbed against Optimus' valve, slipping through his spill. He rubbed the head of his spike against Optimus' valve rim, poking at the anterior sensor.   
  
“I don't know that I'll ever tire of your valve,” Megatron said. “Or your aft.”   
  
“Greedy,” Optimus gritted out.   
  
“Mm. Something like that. All of you belongs to me, Optimus. Don't forget that.” He rutted against Optimus' aft for a few moments before he completely withdrew, sitting back on his heels. One hand patted Optimus' aft. “But as much as I'd enjoy staying here all cycle, claiming what's mine, I do have work to do.”   
  
“How unfortunate,” Optimus muttered.   
  
Megatron chuckled and slid from the berth, giving Optimus the chance to turn on his side, though it took some effort. He cringed at the feeling of transfluid sliding down his plating and in between the gaps.   
  
“You should be happy. I'm going to leave you here,” Megatron said and he patted Optimus on the helm, leaving a smear of transfluid behind.   
  
“With chains no doubt.”   
  
“I won't even bother.” Megatron's field bled satisfaction. He stood next to the berth, his array slick with fluids, and not an ounce of shame. “You won't be able to leave my quarters, though I welcome you to try. After all, where would you go?”   
  
Where indeed?  
  
Optimus rolled back over, showing Megatron his back. His armor twitched, his preservation protocols reminded him that it was dangerous. That Megatron wasn't to be trusted. That Megatron was Enemy.   
  
What did it matter anymore? He shuttered his optics. All Megatron could do now was kill him. Optimus struggled to comprehend why that was such a terrible thing.   
  
“Rest well,” Megatron said, with another one of those patronizing pats to the helm, and then Optimus tracked the sound of his pedesteps and the swish of the door.   
  
He listened, heard the sound of the washracks starting up, and allowed himself the smallest of ex-vents. He had never desired solitude before, but now he craved it. Any amount of time without Megatron was worth it.   
  
Optimus gradually unfurled, wincing as a sharp burst of pain emanated from his valve. He cringed, considering that he might need to examine it. But the thought of touching himself and the fluids already gumming up his armor, made him nauseous.   
  
He tucked his hands under his helm instead.   
  
His tanks reported a marginal thirty percent charge, but the fatigue crawled at his processor. He hadn't recharged with Megatron on top of him and within him.   
  
He'd best take the opportunity while he could and hope that his self-repair would do something to mitigate the damage.   
  
Optimus initiated recharge, thinking it would provide relief, but all it did, was drop him into the past.   
  
_The atmosphere aboard Omega Supreme had not lightened over the course of the journey. Sideswipe had made a brief attempt at humor, with Jazz backing him up, but neither of the two could seem to raise anyone's spirits. Especially not with a very sullen Sunstreaker wedged into a tight space, his armor pitted with scratches and scores. And even more especially with what happened to Prowl.  
  
They'd left Cybertron, slept for four million years, made a home on Earth, and now, they were outcast again. It was sobering. Especially since they'd had to leave the Protectobots and the Dinobots behind, leaving them with promises to return. Promises which weren't nearly enough for Optimus.   
  
Optimus sighed and sat back in his seat, offlining his optics. He should be presenting a better image but to be frank, he was exhausted. He was out of encouragement to offer.   
  
“Blaster informs me we are still unable to contact Elita-One,” Smokescreen said, almost off-hand. There was a note in his vocals that spoke of confusion. And rightly so.   
  
He had no better answer than any of them. He wasn't Prowl. No, Prowl was unconscious in the back of Omega Supreme, with Ratchet and Wheeljack worrying over him, and no answers to be found.   
  
“What of Ultra Magnus?”   
  
“Nothin' but silence, boss.” Jazz leaned across the back of his seat, his arms folded under his chin. “But that ain't news. He's been runnin' on silent for a while. I'll wager he isn't anywhere near Cybertron.”   
  
Optimus rubbed his faceplate and reactivated his optics. He stared dully at the bulkhead. He felt he should say something, but didn't have the words. He'd failed his Autobots and he wasn't entirely sure how.   
  
Omega Supreme lurched to the right. Optimus' spark flailed with alarm.   
  
“Omega?”   
  
No answer. Red and orange lights started to flash. Optimus smelled smoke. He launched to his pedes as a clamor arose behind him.   
  
“What the frag was that?” someone demanded.   
  
Omega lurched again and his entire frame shuddered. Optimus scrambled for a handhold to keep himself on his pedes. Others weren't so lucky and they went tumbling to the floor.   
  
“Prime!”   
  
The shout crackled through his comm.   
  
“We're taking fire,” Silverbolt cried. “The Decepticons. They're all here!”   
  
Light bloomed beyond the port-side window. Optimus' spark dropped into his tanks.   
  
“It's an ambush,” Smokescreen said, realization turning to horror. He stared up at Optimus, optics wide. “They've been waiting for us.”   
  
And up here, still breaking atmosphere as they aimed for Cybertron's surface, they were helpless. Because there were more flight-capable Decepticons – especially on Cybertron –then there were Autobots. And the largest of them were weighted down by almost the entirety of the Autobot army.   
  
They were almost all in one place. Ripe for the taking.   
  
Optimus' hand formed a fist.   
  
There was no other explanation. The humans had betrayed them. _  
  
Optimus jerked online with a gasp, sensation trickling in from his lower half. He threw himself to the side, spark pounding in his chassis. Trust Megatron to return to molest Optimus in his recharge.   
  
Nothing was sacred to that monster.   
  
He drew up his legs, huddled into himself, pressed into the corner of the bunk. Sensory equipment was slow to reboot, and it took several agonizing moments of static-filled vision and muffled noises before the suite rebooted. When it did, Optimus stared in surprise.   
  
Soundwave stood next to Megatron's berth.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Optimus demanded. His valve tingled, he realized, and his face twisted into disgust. “Does Megatron know you're touching his pet?”   
  
It was impossible to read Soundwave's expression. The light behind his visor did not change. “Repairs intended.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrowed. “While I was recharging?”   
  
“Attempted to minimize pain.”   
  
“You failed,” Optimus said, and he warily regarded the communications mech. “Why would you bother anyway?”   
  
Soundwave cocked his helm. “Pain preferred?”   
  
“That's not what I asked!”   
  
“Assistance still offered.”   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. “I cannot believe Megatron would send you.”   
  
“Retrieval intended,” Soundwave monotoned and he inched closer, prompting Optimus to inch back against the wall. “Observation, however, repairs needed.”   
  
Optimus' orbital ridge drew down. “Why?”   
  
Here Soundwave shifted, though it was subtle. The tight rein he held on his field wavered and Optimus received a brief taste of it. Conflict. Confusion. Disappointment. Desperation.   
  
“This,” Soundwave finally said, and made a vague gesture, “not intended outcome.”   
  
“Which part?” Optimus demanded. Anger gave him strength, urged him out of his defensive curl. “Where you helped Megatron slaughter my friends? Where you slapped the rest of us in chains and made us slaves? Where you ripped away any dignity we might have had left?”   
  
He lurched forward and hissed when his valve responded with a sharp reminder that he still hurt, was still damaged.   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and glared at Soundwave. “What were your intentions if not this? You cannot tell me you don't know the mech you followed.”   
  
“Lord Megatron is... changed,” Soundwave said, a touch of true emotion entering his vocals. He shifted his weight as though he struggled to find the right words. “Initial intentions lost. Now only anger and conquest.”   
  
Optimus snorted. “I do not think Megatron ever had good intentions. He only knew how to spin a lie.” It came with the territory, Optimus thought bitterly, when you named your revolutionary army the 'Decepticons.'   
  
Soundwave's field flickered. “Possibility exists,” he admitted. “But original intentions remain. Those involved, now offline. No further reason to fight.”   
  
“I have lost count of the number of times I have offered Megatron a truce and he broke it.”  
  
Soundwave shook his helm. “Truce would not include Lord Megatron.”   
  
Optimus' optics widened. Was there something going on? “What are you saying?”   
  
“Repairs offered,” Soundwave replied, a complete misdirect as he gestured to Optimus' frame. “Your presence expected soon.”   
  
An abrupt ex-vent escaped Optimus. “You are being frustratingly evasive.”   
  
A touch of amusement drizzled through Soundwave's field. “It is necessary,” he said. “For your protection.”   
  
“I think I am beyond that point.” Optimus sighed and stretched out his limbs, resting atop the berth.   
  
He might as well accept the repairs. It wasn't as if there was any part of him the Decepticons hadn't seen. What did it matter if he spread his legs here for Soundwave to repair him? Soundwave stepped closer, pulling a repair kit from subspace.   
  
“Are you trained?” Optimus asked. A twinge of anxiety whispered in his spark. Despite his bluster, he still pressed his knees together.   
  
“Unlicensed field medic,” Soundwave explained and his empty hand touched his dock. “Cassettes prone to injury. Constructicons prone to petty revenge.”   
  
Optimus crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't know where else to put them. “Ah. I should not be so surprised.”   
  
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise and his empty hand reached for Optimus, though only one finger brushed his knee. “Prefer Constructicon?”   
  
“No.” Optimus cycled another ventilation. “I've had enough of Decepticons poking between my legs is all.”   
  
Soundwave retracted his hand. “Understood.” He offered Optimus the repair kit. “Your choice.”   
  
“Hah.” Optimus' gaze flickered between the kit and Soundwave. His valve ached. He was sticky and could use more than a quick fix. “Can I even reach it myself?”   
  
“Unlikely.”   
  
“I didn't think so.” Optimus turned his helm away, unable to watch. “Just get it over with.”   
  
He triggered his valve panel open, grimacing as a wash of old transfluid and lubricant slid free, slick and sticky. He shivered. His grip around his chest tightened.   
  
He heard the hiss of hydraulics as Soundwave moved and felt the shift in the other mech's energy field.   
  
There was a gentle touch to his knee and Optimus reluctantly parted them, baring his array to Soundwave. A waft of cold air brushed over his sticky components. His tanks lurched.   
  
“Scans indicate two damaged calipers,” Soundwave said, his monotone strangely soft. “Permission to repair?”   
  
Optimus' vents wheezed. He gritted his denta. There was something to be said about having this fixed while he was offline. But at least Soundwave gave him the illusion of choice, something the Constructicons didn't bother with.   
  
“Yes,” he forced out.   
  
He startled, however, when the first touch grazed his valve rim. Soundwave's fingers were warm compared to the chill of the room. Soundwave paused, as though waiting for Optimus to protest, before he continued. Two of his fingers, obviously coated with some kind of lubricant, slid up into Optimus' valve. He tried not to stiffen. Curiously, there was something a bit more reassuring about the clinical touch.   
  
Soundwave's fingers found the damaged calipers and pain lanced through Optimus' array.   
  
He went rigid, a sharp cry escaping him.   
  
“Apologies,” Soundwave said, and he actually sounded contrite. His fingers pushed, Optimus twitched, and then relief spread through his array. The bent calipers snapped back into place, and Primus, they ached, but it was nothing compared to the sharp heat.   
  
“Thank you,” Optimus said.   
  
“Gratitude unnecessary. I am, in part, to blame.” Soundwave's fingers withdrew and he edged around the side of the berth. “Your hinges also damaged.”   
  
Optimus shook his helm, his legs snapping back together as he faced Soundwave again. “They'll self-repair.”   
  
His valve was one thing, his spark another. He would rather not bare it ever again if he could help it. He forced himself to sit upright, processor spinning. His energy levels dipped again.   
  
A cube of energon appeared in front of him. Optimus cycled his optics and accepted it, drawing in the scent through his olfactory sensors. Crisp. Sweet. Probably the purest grade he'd received since the Autobots lost the war. His mouth filled with oral lubricant. His tanks gurgled.   
  
Was it poisoned? Right now, he didn't even care. Optimus drained the cube so fast he should have been embarrassed.   
  
“Am I allowed into the washracks or is that a privilege reserved for mecha who own themselves?” Optimus asked as he handed the empty cube back to Soundwave.   
  
“Time remaining: ten minutes.”   
  
“In other words, be quick.” Optimus slid down from the berth, something in his lower back twinging. But it wasn't the worst he'd ever felt.   
  
There was obviously little Soundwave could do with his shattered windshield. Optimus poked the last few bits of glass free, resolved to no longer having them. It wasn't like he could transform anyway.   
  
His knees wobbled. He felt Soundwave's gaze on him, but he said nothing. Optimus waited for his balance to settle and made his way across the floor. A quick rinse in the washracks would go a long way toward making him feel less... dirty.   
  
Soundwave didn't follow him and for the first time in a long time, Optimus found solitude as the door the washracks closed. It was massive, to be expected of the Prime's suite, and all that space for just him was... well, it was a relief.   
  
Optimus activated the nearest nozzle and stepped under the spray, letting the heated cleanser patter down on top of him. Ten minutes, Soundwave had said. Optimus planned on taking every second of it.   
  
He thought his processor would think itself in circles. But his thoughts were strangely empty. Blank. He stared at the wall, felt the solvent drip over his plating and beneath his armor, and couldn't dredge up a single, worthy thought.   
  
Cleaning his array and valve was a fresh brand of discomfort. Optimus hissed air through his vents as he used his fingers to clean the sticky fluids from the joints and seams around his array. There were brushes available but he was disinclined to use anything Megatron had used on himself.   
  
And then his time was up and Optimus had to turn off the spray. He grabbed what he hoped was an unused cloth, wiped himself down, and presented himself to Soundwave.   
  
The communications mech had cleaned in Optimus' absence, wiping the mess of broken glass and lubricant and transfluid from the berth. There had been energon, too, Optimus remembered with a wince.   
  
“Is that what you always do for Megatron?” Optimus asked as he leaned in the frame, folding his arms. “Clean up after his messes?”   
  
Something rattled in Soundwave's substructure. Maybe it was a laugh. “An accurate assumption.” He approached Optimus, something in his hands, which he held with a note of apology to his tone. “Lord Megatron requires it.”   
  
Optimus sighed at sight of the leash. He straightened, unfolded his arms, and tilted his helm back. “Where would I go?”   
  
He flinched as the lead clicked into place, adding weight to the collar around his intake.   
  
“Away.” Soundwave wrapped the end of the lead around his wrist. “Come. Our master waits.”   
  
There was something in the way he said it that tugged at Optimus. He frowned as Soundwave led him from the room. His pace was slow enough to accommodate Optimus' uncoordinated one.   
  
“Our,” Optimus repeated, mostly to Soundwave's back.   
  
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise. He didn't offer a reply and silence fell between them.   
  
It wasn't until they left the Prime Residence that one of Optimus' earlier wonderings was answered. A dark shape flitted down from above, landing on Soundwave's shoulder. Optimus recognized the black and red shape as Laserbeak and the winged cassette affixed Optimus with a curious look.   
  
If she spoke, Optimus didn't hear it. But Soundwave acknowledged her arrival with a gentle pat to her helm, which also attracted her attention. She nipped at his audial in what could almost be called a playful manner, and the tessellated plates of her wings rustled.   
  
Optimus wondered if the other Decepticons had ever seen them interact like this. He didn't think such softness would be allowed under Megatron's iron fist, especially since Megatron seemed to disdain anything that steered too close to kindness.   
  
His question was partially answered when they approached Decepticon command center and Laserbeak alit from Soundwave's shoulder to take up residence in Soundwave's dock. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe he wanted her report. But in all likelihood, it was safer there for her.   
  
When they entered, Optimus' sensors lit up. He registered activity, a charge in the air that stank of excitement. He heard, a noise from a distance, like the cheering that had surrounded him in Megatron's entertainment arena. A chill drove itself into his spark and Optimus' pace slowed further.   
  
He didn't want to go in there, he realized, as they approached the double doors leading to main command. He didn't want to see what new atrocities Megatron committed.   
  
He didn't have a choice.   
  
Soundwave tossed him a look, it might have been sympathy, and then he pushed open the door and pulled Optimus inside. Immediately, he was assaulted with the sounds of laughter and jeering. He heard the wet slap of interface equipment, pleasured moans, and pained grunts. Red Alert's commentary droned in the background, always a shock to the spark.   
  
There was a ring of Decepticons around Megatron's throne. Optimus only recognized half of them.   
  
The gathered Cons cleared a path once they realized Soundwave was present and Optimus stumbled after him, dread coiling in his tanks. He didn't even startle when one of the Decepticons slapped his aft and leered at him. Did it matter who it was? Purple badge, red optics, sharpened denta – one Decepticon was the same as any other.   
  
They broke through the crowd and Optimus drew up short, horror making his knees buckle. He covered his mouth, tank lurching, unable to tear his optics away. He couldn't imagine a more unpleasant shock.  
  
Megatron had arranged another show for his Decepticons.   
  
There were three, maybe four of them, all outmassing the Autobot sandwiched in the middle. A spike in his mouth, two in his valve, his chassis covered in fluids, lubricant and transfluid alike. His optics were dull with undercharge and pain. His abdominal plating bulged. Other layers of his armor were gone.   
  
He hadn't even known that Megatron had possession of Tracks. Optimus thought Tracks had died when Skyfire went down. He didn't think anyone survived Skyfire's death.   
  
Clearly, he was wrong. Where he'd been all this time, Optimus didn't know. Megatron had not bragged of his capture, but Tracks had never been ranked enough to merit Megatron's notice either. He must have been given as a gift to one of Megatron's soldiers.   
  
And whatever Megatron gave, Megatron could take away.   
  
If Tracks saw Optimus, he showed no sign. He was passive, limp between two Decepticons Optimus did not recognize. A third – Bludgeon – had a firm grip on Tracks' helm, plunging into his mouth and down his intake with little regard for Tracks' comfort.   
  
All the while, the crowd of Decepticons watched and cheered and fought over whose turn would be next.   
  
Megatron sat on his throne, his optics glittering, his elbow braced on the arm. He noticed Soundwave and beckoned them closer, his smile widening. Optimus stumbled as the lead forced him to follow along with Soundwave.   
  
“Ah, Optimus,” he purred, taking the leash once Soundwave offered it. “You've missed half the show, but don't worry, I've been reassured that there will be several encores.”   
  
It was getting harder to ventilate. The harsh slap of metal on metal echoed in his audials. The eager moans of the Decepticons made his tanks churn. Tracks was distressingly silent. Energon mingled with the fluids that slicked his thighs.   
  
They would use him until they killed him.   
  
Optimus' hands closed into fists. “Stop it,” he said, and his vocals were liberally laced with static. “You can't do this.”   
  
Megatron flicked his wrist, curling the lead around it and dragging Optimus close enough that he could smell the warlord's exhalations. He wanted to think that it stank, smelling of rotted and fetid things, but instead, Megatron smelled of sweet high grade.   
  
“I can, as a matter of fact, do this,” Megatron said, his tone mild. His free hand lifted. Optimus expected to be struck, but instead Megatron's finger only dragged down the center of his chestplate. “It would be rude to stop them. My Decepticons work hard. Don't they deserve a show?”   
  
Optimus very nearly purged. “This is not entertainment!” he snapped. “It's pointless degradation. It's barbaric. It doesn't prove you're better, just that you're cruel.”   
  
One of the Decepticons howled his release. From his peripheral vision, Optimus saw Bludgeon pull out of Tracks's mouth, overloading on his face. It mingled with the other fluids already present, dripping everywhere. Tracks tilted his helm down, coughing and gagging.  
  
“Who's next?” Bludgeon asked, palming his receding spike as he stepped back with a swagger. His expression was smug, sated.   
  
“Cruel,” Megatron murmured and he tugged on Optimus' lead, forcing all of Optimus' attention toward him. “Wouldn't it be crueler to take their show away? Or perhaps you'd rather take his place?”  
  
Optimus recoiled, not that he had anywhere to go. This game again? Hadn't they gone round this circle with Hound and his scout still ended up in the arena? What good had it done Optimus then?  
  
“I would do anything to protect them,” Optimus forced out, his armor clamping down. “But even I know I could ask this of you, and it would do either of us little good.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “True. But I could also shoot him instead.”  
  
Optimus' engine weakly growled. It was, he realized, never about Tracks. It was, as it had always been, about Megatron's hatred for Optimus.   
  
He cycled a ventilation. “You want me to beg,” he stated in a dull tone.   
  
Megatron flicked his wrist again, allowing some slack in the lead. “On your knees,” he confirmed, and his optics burned brighter, his field thickening with lust. “What's the life of an Autobot worth to you, Optimus?”   
  
Optimus ground his denta. Megatron already knew the answer, of course. Because he also knew Optimus couldn't take that chance. Megatron had proven he had no qualms about executing Autobots.   
  
Optimus worked his intake and bowed his helm. The lead gave him just enough slack to lower himself to the ground, his hydraulics hissing and his joints creaking with ill maintenance. He felt Megatron's optics on him. He felt the regard of the other Decepticons, some of the cheering dying down as they watched Optimus.   
  
He lowered himself to the ground at Megatron's pedes. He bowed his helm, pressed it to the floor.   
  
“Now,” Megatron said. His weight shifted and then Optimus felt the weight on his back. It could only have been Megatron's pede. “Tell me what you're requesting of me, my pet.”   
  
The words tasted sour. Optimus had to reset his vocalizer twice before he could get them past his lips.   
  
“Allow me to take Tracks' place, please,” he said, and his fingers scraped the floor, hard enough to hurt.   
  
“That's a start.” Megatron bore down.   
  
Optimus' tank lurched again. “Master,” he forced out, and felt Megatron's immediate approval. “Let me service your soldiers. Please. For the sake of my Autobot, I--” He cut off, worked his intake, and ex-vented. “I beg of you.”   
  
There was a hanging moment. Megatron contemplated. Optimus sagged against the floor.   
  
“Hmm,” Megatron finally said, and then he lifted his pede and pulled on the lead, dragging Optimus upright. He looked Optimus in the optics and said, “No.”   
  
Optimus' optics widened before they narrowed again. He climbed to his pedes, his armor shaking. “No?”   
  
“It's a simple glyph, Optimus.” Megatron leaned back in his throne, smug to the core. “You asked. I gave an answer. Which is 'no'. As much fun as my soldiers would have with you, I don't feel like sharing right now.”   
  
“You...” Optimus broke off, words failing him. He shook his helm, felt the heat of anger wash across his frame.   
  
The lead was slack between them. He had more than enough room. It was pointless. All of it, so pointless.   
  
“Perhaps later,” Megatron continued, and Optimus didn't care to hear any of it.   
  
His engine revved. Optimus launched himself at Megatron, well aware of the optics watching him and hoping, if not to hurt Megatron, then to at least make him look the fool. Just as he'd done to Optimus.   
  
He braced himself for the stinging lash of the shock collar. He never saw the backhand coming. It struck him across the face, hard enough to dent. Optimus spun backward, pain blossoming in its wake. He stumbled, dropping to his aft.   
  
Megatron rose to his pedes and kicked Optimus again, though he turned at the last moment, catching the blow on his shoulder. Around them, the cheering had gone silent. The Decepticons watched, even those violating Tracks.   
  
Optimus' processor spun. He was uncoordinated as he tried to get back to his pedes.   
  
Megatron looked down at him, but his field didn't buzz with anger. Instead, there was amusement. “Hmm,” he said. “You may have a point. Decepticons, stand down.”   
  
“What? Why?” one of the Decepticons whined, and only then did Optimus realize it was one of the three clustered around Tracks.   
  
“But you said--”  
  
Megatron's glare cut off the complaining of another one. Hastily, they disengaged, dropping Tracks to a dirty heap on the floor, square in a pool of mingled fluids. Tracks didn't bother to catch himself. He simply lay there as though moving required too much effort.   
  
Optimus understood. He'd been there before.   
  
Megatron gripped Optimus' lead and hauled him to his pedes. Optimus scrambled to get his pedes beneath him before his neck snapped. As it was, his intake constricted.   
  
“You say that we're barbarians,” Megatron said, stepping down from his throne. He towed Optimus along with him, straight toward where Tracks lay. “That we're cruel.”   
  
The dread returned. Optimus put on the brakes, but it didn't matter. Megatron yanked hard on the lead, throwing Optimus forward. He tripped over his own pedes and crashed to the floor, catching himself at the last minute with his hands. He pushed himself upright, only for Megatron's mass to come down on him, driving his torso back toward the floor.   
  
“Then why don't you show us what it means to be nice,” Megatron finished and the shadow of his gesture aimed at Tracks. “I'm sure he could use it right now.”   
  
Optimus recoiled. “I refuse,” he bit out.   
  
He heard the whine of a fusion cannon cycling into readiness. He looked up and saw it pointed at Tracks's helm.   
  
“Then he's of no more use,” Megatron declared with a tilt of his helm. “Pity.”   
  
“Stop!”   
  
Optimus scrambled at the floor, restrained by Megatron's weight. He was close enough to touch Tracks and he internally begged the former noble to look at him. Tracks' optics were dimly lit, but he stirred, helm tilting toward Optimus.   
  
One optic was cracked. His cheek was visibly dented. His face was striped in transfluid, and his winglets bent out of shape. His field, what ragged remnants of it Optimus could sense, spoke of pain and despair.   
  
Even so... Optimus had no right to make this choice for him.   
  
“What would you have me do?” he asked, just above a whisper. The closer Decepticons could hear him, but he didn't care about their leers. Only Tracks' answer mattered.   
  
He saw Tracks' intake bob. There was a visible dent around the former noble's throat. There was a click, a burr of static. His lips barely moved. With everything else, they'd also ruined his ability to communicate.   
  
A shudder ran through Tracks's plating. His hand clenched and unclenched. A sigh washed out, wet with broken internal lines.   
  
Tracks offlined his optics and bowed his helm. His field flattened.   
  
Very well.   
  
Optimus turned his helm away and offlined his optics. His spark hurt, more than the pain Megatron had caused him. He couldn't fault Tracks. Primus only knew what the former noble had suffered before being brought here. Or even how long Tracks had been in this room, subject to every Decepticon who wanted a turn.   
  
“I won't do it,” Optimus said, loud enough for all to hear him this time. “I won't contribute to this offense. No matter what you threaten.”   
  
“Are you calling my bluff, Optimus?”   
  
He pushed up against the weight bearing him down. Megatron didn't move. Perhaps the token resistance was enough.   
  
“We're too valuable to you,” he said instead. “I know you won't do it.”   
  
Megatron chuckled, a dark sound. “Oh, Optimus. You don't know me very well at all. You never did.”   
  
He heard the whine and hiss of power surging into a powerful weapon. He heard the click of a trigger, the loud bang of the shot. He felt the wash of heat past his backplate, his helm, searing the tip of his antenna. The ground shuddered as the fire slammed into Tracks' frame and hit the floor beneath him.   
  
There was no splatter. Megatron's cannon was too hot, too precise, for splatter. But the stench of scorched energon and lubricant was thick. Nauseating.   
  
Optimus couldn't bring himself to look. He lowered his helm, drawing his arms inward. His spark ached. The empty connectors where the matrix had been twitched.   
  
Megatron's weight vanished from his back and the fusion cannon cycled down. He stepped away, giving Optimus room to draw himself up onto his knees at least. He couldn't lift his helm. He reminded himself that Tracks had chosen this. He, at last, had been able to decide his fate no matter how awful the two choices had been.   
  
It did not make Optimus feel any lighter.   
  
“Let this be a reminder to you,” Megatron declared and he was no doubt gesturing broadly, grandstanding. The end of the lead jerked with every motion. “The time where I make empty threats has gone. The Stunticons failed me, so I took their pet. Optimus defied me, so I took what mattered to him. That is your lesson.”   
  
The lead jerked Optimus back and he sprawled backward, awkwardly flipping to his front so that he could scuttle toward Megatron. The warlord placed himself back on his throne, optics glittering with satisfaction. He watched Optimus as he slowly wound the lead around his wrist, pulling Optimus closer and closer until he perched right at Megatron's pedes, ever the toy for Megatron's amusement.   
  
It was becoming harder to get angry.   
  
“Now get back to work,” Megatron ordered. “And someone clean up that mess. Soundwave, find me news of Earth.”  
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
Decepticons scrambled to obey. Optimus watched them. Where would they take Tracks, he wondered. Probably where they had tossed the other Autobots Megatron executed. Ironhide and Inferno, more who Optimus probably never knew about. If he hadn't known of Tracks' survival, who else could he have missed?  
  
The lead tugged at his intake, pulling Optimus' gaze toward Megatron. The warlord looked down at him without a trace of anger in his optics.   
  
“Do you understand now, Optimus?”   
  
He didn't answer. He assumed it was a rhetorical question. But he lowered his gaze. He could tremble with fury and shame. He could wallow in his grief. None of it would matter to Megatron.   
  
The lead slackened. Megatron's hand settled on his helm, almost gentle. He stroked fingers up Optimus' audials as he shifted on the throne, making himself comfortable.   
  
“Perform admirably,” Megatron murmured. “Be obedient. And perhaps, I might be convinced to grant you a favor. Cooperation, that's not too much to ask for your Autobots, is it?”   
  
Optimus shuddered and swallowed down a surge of nausea. “Another agreement you won't honor?”  
  
“That depends on you.”   
  
Megatron's grip on his helm became a bit firmer, his palm curved around the back of Optimus' helm. Pressure urged Optimus forward, between Megatron's spreading thighs. It quickly became obvious what Megatron wanted as his panel slid open and the head of his spike peeked from its housing.   
  
“Are you willing to take that risk that you could have saved them and chose not to?”   
  
He was no longer their Prime. But that didn't mean he could abandon his responsibility. He'd failed them. He owed them this much.   
  
Optimus flicked a glance at Megatron, but his face betrayed nothing. Except, perhaps, for an eagerness for Optimus to get to work. The pressure on the back of Optimus' helm increased, though not enough to force him forward.   
  
The choice was implied to be his. An illusion of consent. There was nothing consensual about any of this.   
  
Optimus scooted closer and bent to the task. Megatron parted his legs to make room for Optimus, and his hand rested on the back of Optimus' helm, guiding but not forcing. His field purred approval as Optimus licked at the head of his spike, attempting to encourage the unit to emerge.   
  
He knew that the Decepticons were watching their leader get serviced. He assumed it was part of the show, Megatron proving his dominance. Humiliation gnawed at Optimus. How much lower would Megatron make him go?   
  
He didn't want the answer to that question.   
  
“Acceptable,” Megatron murmured. His hand started petting Optimus once more as he settled back into his throne, making himself comfortable. His spike slowly extended into Optimus' mouth and Optimus resigned himself to a tankful of transfluid.   
  
Behind him, one of Megatron's soldiers arrived with a mop.   
  


***

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1/IDW AU  
> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Onslaught, Soundwave, his Cassettes, Vortex, Bumblebee, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: forced bondage, spreader bar, sex toys, valve service  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Ticking Bomb," Aloe Blacc

Megatron worked for the rest of the shift with Optimus sitting at his pedes, leaning against the base of the throne. Decepticons came by to stare, but none dared touch him and Megatron didn't demand anything further of Optimus. He managed a light doze in snatches, though he startled awake with every laugh or rumble of irritation.   
  
Only once did he stir, to listen when the Decepticons on Earth reported in, but they had nothing of interest to say. Nothing except that they hadn't caught whoever had caused problems.   
  
There was a tiny flicker of hope within Optimus. First Aid was alive. Were his brothers as well? Swoop, too. Had other Dinobots survived? Were they now giving the Decepticons stationed on Earth merry hell? Good for them.   
  
It didn't make Megatron any happier.   
  
He threatened everyone. If Barricade's team didn't produce results, they would lose their reward just as the Stunticons had.   
  
Optimus tried to listen, to see who had been given to Barricade's team, but no names were ever mentioned. He almost didn't want to know. He had experienced Barricade's special brand of hospitality. He dreaded to think what an Autobot would suffer within Barricade's grasp on a daily basis.   
  
But once Megatron was done proving his dominance and issuing threats, he apparently decided he'd done enough work for the day. He rose to his pedes, left a newly arrived Cyclonus in charge, and strode from his command center with his pet at his heels.   
  
Optimus trotted along after him and tried not to limp too obviously. What other choice did he have? He tried not to think about the sour taste lingering on his glossa. Or the stain on the floor of the command center. Or the pervasive odor of a snuffed spark.   
  
They returned to Megatron's quarters and already, Optimus' internals swirled with anxiety. What new and terrible torture had Megatron devised now?   
  
“You look troubled, Optimus,” Megatron commented as he pulled Optimus toward the berthroom, a place that held no good memories. Then again, there wasn't a single room in this penthouse that Optimus felt safe visiting.  
  
“It should not be difficult to discern why,” Optimus muttered. His spark pulsed faster. His fingers were shaking. “Your imagination is only outstripped by your cruelty.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “How right you are.” He turned toward Optimus and dropped the lead to his collar. “Bend over the table.”   
  
It was a test, Optimus knew. Especially given the opportunity Megatron gave. Obey, cooperate, and earn a concession.   
  
Optimus' optics slid to said table. It looked strong enough to support his weight. It was even of an appropriate height that obeying wouldn't put too much strain on his frame. Optimus moved to do so and felt more than a little vulnerable with his aft and back on display.   
  
“Arms behind your back,” Megatron said as he circled around Optimus. There was a gleam to his optics that bode well for no one. “Spread your legs. Open your panels.”  
  
Optimus gritted his denta and grasped his wrists at the base of his backstrut. His panels slid aside, cooler air whisking over his exposed components. His valve twitched, already accustomed to what came next despite how little time Optimus had actually spent in Megatron's custody.   
  
Was it really only two weeks?  
  
“Obedience,” Megatron purred. “I approve, Optimus.”   
  
A hand caressed his aft. Fingers traced the rim of his valve and flirted over his anterior node. Optimus offlined his optics, told himself that he could obey this once, see what it granted him, and if indeed there was nothing afterward, he could rebel.   
  
But if there was the slimmest chance... he would take it.   
  
Fingers tapped his hips. “Further,” Megatron ordered.   
  
Optimus ex-vented and inched his pedes further apart. This left him awkwardly unbalanced, his pelvic array grinding against the edge of the desk as he tried to tilt his weight forward to remain on the desk.   
  
“Better,” Megatron said.   
  
The hands vanished from his aft. Optimus heard Megatron move away and he turned his helm, trying to locate the warlord. Megatron was pulling a box from under the berth and rummaging through it. He emerged with a pair of stasis cuffs, no surprise there, a long bar, and an interfacing toy.  
  
“Optics forward,” Megatron said as he returned.   
  
Reluctantly, Optimus swung his gaze back toward the wall. Was it better or worse that he couldn't see what Megatron was doing? He braced himself for anything.   
  
The cuffs went around his wrist, but he expected that much. The bar was placed between his spread legs and shackled to his ankles, preventing him from drawing his legs together. Then there was a touch on the rim of his valve.   
  
Optimus jerked. A heavy hand rested on his aft, pinning his hips down to the table.   
  
“Don't move,” Megatron said.   
  
Optimus gritted his denta, his hands pulling into fists. He tried to quiet his ventilations as fingers felt all around his valve, one pushing inside as though testing the limits of his lubrication. He heard the pop of a cap and then felt slick fingers enter his valve, spreading around a gooey lubrication.   
  
He wasn't so gone as to think it consideration.   
  
“Almost done,” Megatron said. “Just one last ornament.”  
  
Megatron's fingers left his valve and were swiftly replaced with something hard, ridged, and cold. A false spike, Optimus assumed. He sucked in a sharp vent as Megatron worked the spike deeper and deeper, until the blunt head of it lodged against Optimus' ceiling node. His calipers restlessly clacked around it, trying to connect to sensor nodes that weren't present.   
  
“Close your panel.”   
  
Optimus bit back a groan and did as commanded, cycling his panel closed. The massive spike sat within his valve like a dead weight, far from comfortable. It was cold and unfeeling as well, nothing like a spike.   
  
Megatron stroked his aft. “Obedience looks good on you, Optimus,” His thumb brushed over Optimus' panel, pressing in on it as though trying to feel the toy behind it. “Now. Stay here. Stay still. And do your best not to overload.”   
  
“I doubt it'll be a challenge,” Optimus gritted out.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “We'll see.”   
  
He smacked Optimus' aft and Optimus startled, the shift of his frame jostling the spike within him. His valve fluttered.   
  
He heard Megatron shift and his field distanced itself. Megatron's heavy pedesteps indicated he was walking away and Optimus turned his helm, discreetly watching. What did Megatron intend to get now?   
  
Nothing apparently, because there he was, heading for the washracks. He went into them without a backward glance, leaving Optimus out here like this, on display for no one to see. Waiting for his master to return. He heard the washracks click on and the patter of solvent, as if to further prove he'd been left.   
  
Optimus' engine growled and he sighed, trying his best to relax on top of the table. Solitude was rare enough that he ought to enjoy it while he could.   
  
That was when the toy in his valve started to vibrate.   
  
Optimus grunted. His hips shifted restlessly as the low-grade vibrations traveled all throughout his array. They teased at his spike, struggling to share space with the massive toy in his valve. His array warmed, producing lubricant.   
  
It felt good. Pleasant. Just strong enough to produce sensation, but not so strong he felt overwhelmed. So this was Megatron's game. That bastard.   
  
Optimus groaned and pressed his forehelm to the table. Warmth pooled in his array, blossoming outward. His valve clenched down on the spike, little prickles of static igniting where the soft vibrations teased at his sensors. His hips moved, rocking against the table, shifting the spike within him.   
  
He forced himself to be still. He clenched his hands into fists and tried to regulate his ventilations. He turned his focus inward, hoping to ignore the pleasant sensation in his array.   
  
“Don't overload,” Megatron had commanded.   
  
And if he did? What were the consequences? Optimus didn't want to know. There was little Megatron could do to him physically. But that didn't mean he couldn't hurt Optimus. There were some things worse than pain.   
  
Optimus' ventilations quickened. His ex-vents left damp trails on the table. His panel pinged at him to open and he had to deny it. Lubricant gathered in his valve, filling up all the empty space around the false spike. That only made it worse, made it easier for the vibrations to carry through his array.   
  
It clicked into a higher setting.   
  
Optimus swallowed down what could only be called a squeak. His pedes shifted on the floor, but there was no give to the rod. He couldn't draw his legs together. His hips rocked against the edge of the table, try as he might to hold himself still.   
  
The vibrations were heavier. He could hear them through his frame, where they shook his entire pelvic assembly and rumbled on the table. The low drone filled his audials. His anterior node throbbed.   
  
His panel pinged for release again. Optimus denied it. Heat crept upward, suffusing his entire frame. His knees wobbled. The scrape-scrape of his hips against the table edge became rhythmic. He gripped his own wrists all the harder, hearing his armor protest.   
  
Optimus ground his denta, the skreel of metal on metal a brief distraction.   
  
In the distance, he heard the washracks shut off, the fall of solvent quieting. There was, distantly, the shuffle of pedes.   
  
The vibrator clicked to a third setting and Optimus outright moaned. His entire frame shook as charge shot through his array. He rocked against the table, his ventilations rapid and shallow. Lubricant pushed at his closed panel, seeping into the seams.   
  
The door to the washracks opened. Optimus turned his helm, staring in Megatron's direction, finding it difficult to focus.   
  
“I'm proud of you, Optimus,” Megatron said as he approached, smelling of cleanser and fresh wax. “You didn't overload.” His hand rested on Optimus' aft and stroked his plating.   
  
“So glad I could gain your approval,” Optimus gritted out and his engine raced. “Get this thing out of me.”   
  
“All in due time.” Megatron chuckled and his fingers traced the seam of Optimus' valve. “You're hot and you're leaking. Are you enjoying my gift?”   
  
Optimus stared at the wall, unwilling to look at Megatron's face further. He refused to answer.   
  
Megatron smacked his aft, jostling the spike again, and Optimus cried out. He shook so hard he could hear some armor plates clattering.   
  
“Answer the question, Optimus.”   
  
He cycled a ventilation. “I have no choice but to enjoy it, Megatron.”   
  
“Hmm. Not quite what I was looking for, but I'll take it. Open your panel.”   
  
It was with no small amount of relief that Optimus did so, despite the trickle of lubricant that immediately emerged and trickled down his thighs. He wasn't even embarrassed about it. Megatron made another noise of approval, his finger swiping up Optimus' inner thigh panel and gathering up a dribble of the lubricant.   
  
“I'd say you were enjoying it immensely,” he observed and Optimus felt the end of the toy shift. It wriggled about within his valve, slid a little deeper, and then slid out, dragging along his sensors.   
  
Optimus shuddered. His hips danced in place. Overload was tantalizingly close. The heat within his array was suffocating. His valve tingled, sensors throbbing with need.   
  
The toy was gone, set to the table beside his hip, Optimus' valve clenching on nothing. A frustrated noise escaped him before he could stop it.   
  
Megatron's hands rested on his hips and Optimus felt the warlord settle between his thighs. The head of his spike poked at Optimus' rim and then dragged along the circumference of it.   
  
“Do you want to overload?”   
  
“Need to,” Optimus gritted out.   
  
Megatron hummed his approval and the very tip of his spike nudged into Optimus' opening. His valve immediately clamped down, trapping the ridged head of it. He felt Megatron's spike throbbing against his sensors. His hips rocked, desperate for more, until Megatron's hands held him in place, pinned him down to the table. More lubricant leaked down his thighs.   
  
“Beg me for it,” Megatron said.   
  
Optimus huffed a sharp ventilation. He refused.   
  
“This is not cooperating, Optimus.” Megatron's spike inched forward, taunting him.   
  
Optimus gasped. “You--” Another smack rang across his aft.   
  
“Beg.”   
  
He pressed his forehelm to the table and shuttered his optics. “Please,” Optimus said and he didn't know it was possible to taste a glyph until now. It was bitter.   
  
“Please what?” The spike pushed deeper, another precious inch, gliding smoothly over his sensors and lighting them. Hungry calipers cycled down.   
  
Optimus shivered. “Please let me overload.”   
  
Megatron slid into him all at once, bottoming out. “As you wish,” he purred and gripped Optimus' hips.   
  
He thrust in and out of Optimus, a fast rhythm that trapped him between Megatron's bulk and the table. Optimus gasped, hearing his chestplate and windshield scrape on the metal, but most of his focus went to his valve. It burned with need, clamped down hungrily on Megatron's spike, and eagerly rushed toward overload.   
  
It didn't take much. Especially not when Megatron planted one hand on his lower backstrut, pinning him down, and the other crept underneath Optimus' frame. The moment his fingers touched Optimus' throbbing nub, Optimus shouted his overload, convulsing beneath Megatron. The warlord's fingers mercilessly rubbed his node, through all the ripples of his release. He shoved his spike through Optimus' clenching rings, ex-venting a burst of heat.   
  
Optimus sagged, gasping for cooler air. There was little to be found as Megatron draped over him, his mass settling on Optimus' frame as his hips pistoned into Optimus' valve. He slammed against the back of Optimus' thighs, mindlessly chasing his own overload. Both of Megatron's hands returned to his hips, grip strong enough to dent, and Megatron roared his overload not too soon afterward.   
  
Optimus felt the spill within him, searing hot, mingling with the copious lubricant his own valve had produced.   
  
He grimaced and waited for Megatron to finish. His valve remained sensitive and twitched as Megatron settled atop him, his spike lingering. Megatron nuzzled the back of his helm.   
  
“You're welcome,” Megatron purred, nibbling at Optimus' neck cabling.   
  
Optimus shuddered. “I didn't say thank you.”   
  
“I know. We'll get to that.”   
  
Megatron pushed himself off Optimus, but he didn't immediately withdraw. Optimus heard him fumble around on the table before he abruptly removed himself from Optimus' valve. He had a moment to be relieved, his valve twitching at the sudden rush of cool air, before the false spike returned, sliding up into his valve and trapping the fluids within.   
  
“Close your panel,” Megatron ordered.   
  
Optimus groaned and obeyed. The false spike was no longer vibrating, but the pressure of it was uncomfortable. All Optimus wanted was to clean himself out. Megatron's spill seemed to sear his internals.   
  
“Good pet.”   
  
Megatron patted his aft and then the shackles were removed from his ankles. There was a clatter as the rod was thrown to the side.   
  
“Cooperation,” Optimus said, his tone dull as he listened to Megatron shuffle around behind him. “What did it earn me?”   
  
Megatron grabbed hold of his wrists and yanked him to his pedes. Optimus hissed air through his vents as his shoulder protested. He struggled to stay upright on wobbling legs. The spike shifted within him, the new angle pressing hard against previously untouched sensors.   
  
Megatron spun him around so that they faced each other and crowded Optimus against the table, a hand to either side of him. He nudged a knee between Optimus' thighs and looked down at him.   
  
“Earn?” he repeated and his lips quirked in a smile. “Ah, I did promise you that, didn't I?”   
  
Optimus turned his helm away. “Never mind. You were only mocking me.”   
  
“I was not.” Megatron nibbled along the curve of his jaw. “I keep my word. What would you ask of me, Optimus?”  
  
Optimus shuttered his optics. There was the obvious. He knew what he should ask for: the freedom of his Autobots. He also knew that Megatron would only laugh at him. One instance of cooperation versus a lifetime of leverage? No, Megatron would not free his Autobot slaves. Optimus doubted he could convince Megatron to release even one of them. At least, not yet.   
  
Megatron rocked against his panel, denta and glossa moving to his audial. “Unless you've changed your mind...?”  
  
“My spark!” Optimus blurted, part of him terrified that he would lose this chance.   
  
“Your spark?” Megatron pulled back, one hand grabbing Optimus' jaw and forcing his face back toward Megatron's.   
  
He kept his gaze averted. “Don't touch my spark again,” Optimus clarified, aware that he was revealing a weakness but frag it. He could take whatever Megatron did to his frame, but the spark assault had been the worst.   
  
He didn't know if he could survive another. Or if he did, whether he'd still be Optimus by the end of it.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I see. How selfish of you, Optimus. Here I was ready to allow one of your precious soldiers freedom.”   
  
Optimus clenched his jaw. “I don't believe that for a second.”   
  
“Of course you don't.” Megatron made a thoughtful noise. “However, that is a concession I'm given to allow. I'm not fond of spark sharing as it is. I'd much rather have your frame. And your cooperation.”   
  
“Then you have it.” He lifted his gaze, locking optics with Megatron. “So long as you never touch my spark again.”   
  
Megatron's thumb stroked his jaw. “If only you had been so agreeable earlier on, I might have not been forced to destroy your Autobots.”   
  
“You would never have been satisfied with my surrender.”   
  
“You may have a point.” Megatron grinned again and tilted Optimus' helm up, nipping at Optimus' intake. “Can't say I'm disappointed by my results either.”   
  
Optimus swallowed. “Why would you be? You won.”   
  
“Yes, I did. In every way that mattered.” Megatron drew back. His hand fell from Optimus' jaw to his chestplate. He flattened his palm across the seam. “What was yours is now mine. It's only a matter of time before I claim the rest of the universe.”   
  
“Delusions of grandeur,” Optimus noted.   
  
Megatron laughed and stepped back, giving him some breathing room. “That's what they said when I crawled out of the pit and gathered my army. Delusions of grandeur. And here I am, victorious.”  
  
“For a certain definition of the word, yes.”   
  
“By every definition,” Megatron corrected. He crossed the room and sprawled into his chair, lounging upon it as he did his throne. He crooked a finger at Optimus. “Come here.”   
  
He obeyed, though every step was awkward given the massive spike lodged in his valve. It shifted with him, reawakening his once sated array.   
  
Megatron spread his thighs, revealing his panel. Lubricant was visible in the seams, getting tackier with every passing moment.   
  
“Haven't you had enough?” Optimus asked.   
  
“Of you? Never.” Megatron pointed a finger to the ground. “Kneel.”   
  
Optimus sighed through his vents as he dropped down, motions as awkward as walking. There was the click of a panel opening, though when he looked, it was not Megatron's spike that emerged, but the engorged pleats of his valve coming into view. It was dark gray and black, Megatron's anterior node the same crimson as his optics. The gleam of lubricant was barely visible within the depths.   
  
“You have such a talented glossa,” Megatron purred, shifting to get comfortable. He balanced one elbow on the chair's arm and propped his chin upon his knuckles. “I'd hate to see it go to waste.”   
  
Cooperation.   
  
Optimus braced himself and leaned into the task. Megatron was already leaking lubricant, and his frontal nub was swollen. Optimus extended his glossa, first touching that pulsing node. Megatron's sharp intake assured him that Megatron approved.   
  
Optimus pressed closer, his glossa laving a long strip from one end of Megatron's rim to the other. The taste of lubricant was thick on his glossa, bittersweet, and he had to force himself to swallow. Was it better or worse than Megatron's transfluid? How could Optimus even begin to quantify that kind of violation?  
  
He mouthed at the rim of Megatron's valve, mapping out the sensor pattern. The faster he got Megatron off, perhaps the faster he could go into recharge. Perhaps the faster Megatron would remove the shackles as well.   
  
Optimus sealed his mouth over Megatron's valve and dipped his glossa past the folds, curling it just so to lap at the sensor behind his anterior nub. Megatron moaned, his hand landing on Optimus' helm. His hips rocked toward Optimus' mouth, grinding his array against Optimus' face.   
  
More lubricant slopped into his mouth. He swallowed lest he choke on it. His glossa went back to work, licking at Megatron's valve and teasing every sensor he found. He returned, time and time again, to Megatron's external nub. Gentle nibbles with his denta made Megatron squirm and his hold tighten. Sucking prompted Megatron's engine to growl.   
  
Megatron's legs tightened around Optimus' shoulders, keeping him pinned. His hand urged Optimus closer, all but smashing Optimus' face against his valve rim. The slick noises of his own glossa echoed in Optimus' audials.   
  
A moan burbled up from Megatron's vocalizer. His legs shifted and Optimus felt his pedes press against Optimus' back, right above his bound wrists. They urged Optimus closer, his hips rutting up against Optimus' face.   
  
“This,” Megatron growled out, his field swamping Optimus' with need and lust, “Is where you belong. In service to me.”   
  
He didn't bother to argue otherwise.   
  
Optimus licked and sucked and nibbled, forcing his glossa as deep into Megatron's valve as he could. Feeling the flutter of the walls against his appendage. Megatron's fingers tightened on his helm. He heard the slap of metal on metal, assumed Megatron's other hand was grasping the arm of his chair.   
  
Megatron's thighs quivered. His nub pulsed and Optimus returned to it. He circled the tip of his tongue around the sensitive node and then suckled it.   
  
Megatron bucked up against him, overloading with a shout. He pushed Optimus' face to his array and ground down, hips moving in tiny circles. Optimus hurriedly redirected his intake vents before they were flooded by lubricant. He felt it slithering down into his tanks, not a trace of energy to be found in it.   
  
Even as the tremors faded, Megatron kept Optimus pressed to his array. He gently lapped at Megatron's valve, easing him through the aftershocks.   
  
Finally, Megatron sagged back into his chair. His hand shifted from pulling on Optimus' helm, to resting around it. His legs unfolded, releasing Optimus' frame, and he uncurled. He sat back in his chair, vents spinning on max.   
  
“Well done,” Megatron praised. His hand petted Optimus' helm, pausing briefly to finger his antennae, before stroking the curve of it. “Now clean up the mess you made.”   
  
Optimus scowled where Megatron could not see him. As if Megatron's pleasure was his fault.   
  
“Would not a mesh cloth be faster?” he asked in between tiny licks. He skirted Megatron's sensitive valve, aiming first for the splatters of lubricant on Megatron's inner thigh.   
  
“But not quite so entertaining.” Megatron purred.  
  
Optimus sighed and continued his task, licking Megatron clean as fast as he could. His shoulders were starting to go numb and he could barely feel his fingers. Not to mention that his energon levels were gradually decreasing.   
  
When he finished, he bowed his helm and focused on ventilating. All he could taste was Megatron's lubricants. He waited for the click of Megatron's panels closing to confirm that Megatron accepted he was done.   
  
“You really are being obedient,” Megatron said with a pat to his helm. “Keep this up and I'll free an Autobot after all.”   
  
“I'll settle for you taking off the cuffs right now,” Optimus muttered.   
  
Megatron laughed. “I'm sure you would. Come on. Get up and turn around.”   
  
He didn't offer Optimus any assistance, seeming content to watch as Optimus struggled to stand, his limbs unsteady beneath him. He gave his back to Megatron and sighed in relief as the cuffs were undone, allowing his arms to swing free. Tension eased from his frame.   
  
Megatron patted his aft. “Good pet.”   
  
Optimus wondered if he would ever stop flinching when he heard that.   
  


-INTERLUDE-

  
  
The flattened ruins of Praxus were hardly an appropriate place to meet considering Onslaught's Autobot, or maybe his cryptic messenger had chosen Praxus for precisely that reason. Onslaught did not know.   
  
What he did know was that he did not like being blackmailed and coerced into clandestine meetings with mysterious hackers. Especially since even the hint of treachery toward Megatron was making pain spike along his neural net and set a tremble into his knees. Onslaught was not a fan of discomfort. He was especially not a fan of the discomfort caused by Megatron's coding.   
  
He'd also been told to come alone. But what the hacker didn't know, wouldn't betray him. Vortex was more than skilled at keeping himself hidden.   
  
This would have been a good opportunity for his Autobot sniper, had the mysterious mech not chosen Praxus. Onslaught was not so cruel as to drag Bluestreak here. The Autobot suffered enough as it was and Onslaught still struggled to get him to understand that the Combaticons were not interested in harming him or turning him into a slave.   
  
He was expected to learn useful skills. They expected him to continue training so as to be able to contribute to their team. But he had his own room, small as it was, a ration of energon equal to theirs, and no one touched him without his permission. He was kept clean and well-maintained and when Onslaught could, he brought the sniper news of his Autobot friends.   
  
Bluestreak was probably the luckiest of them all, though that was not saying much. He was still a prisoner, trapped in a cage.   
  
Just like the Combaticons.   
  
Onslaught scanned the horizon again, his sensors set to their maximum. Even so, he somehow missed the arrival of his contact. Or perhaps he'd been here all along.   
  
“What do you want?” Onslaught demanded.   
  
He turned to face the hacker, internally berating himself. The signs had been obvious. He should have guessed. Perhaps he had been blinded by a perceived loyalty.   
  
“Assistance offered,” Soundwave said. Other than Buzzsaw perched on his shoulder, opposite the sonic cannon, he appeared alone.   
  
Onslaught was not fooled. Just because he couldn't see the Cassettes didn't mean they weren't around.   
  
“And assistance needed.”   
  
Onslaught's visor darkened. A low growl built in his chassis. “You'll have to clarify, Soundwave. I'm not the telepath here.”   
  
Soundwave lifted a hand and tapped his spark and then his helm. “Freedom,” he intoned. “Offered.”   
  
Onslaught grit his denta as his spark surged with eagerness and the coding slithered through him, all too quick to stomp it down.   
  
“How?” he forced out.   
  
Soundwave moved closer and Onslaught's battle protocols sprang to readiness, driven by the pain clawing at his internals. He tensed. But Soundwave did not attack him. On his shoulder, Buzzsaw ruffled his metallic feathers but remained still.   
  
Soundwave tapped his helm again. “Method known. Shared.” He paused, tilted his helm, his visor burning brighter. “If allegiance accepted.”   
  
“Shrewd.” Onslaught folded his arms and locked his joints, if only to not betray the sudden weakness in his limbs. His intakes rasped but he would endure this pain. “How do I know I can trust you?”  
  
Soundwave's hand lowered to his side. “Freedom desired.”   
  
“Of course it is. That's what I've been saying all along.” Onslaught snorted and half-turned, only to pause as realization crept in on the edges. He whipped back toward Soundwave. “You're his most loyal follower. Why would he do that?”   
  
Soundwave shook his helm, dismissing the question. “Warning extended.”   
  
“About what?”  
  
“Starscream also involved.”   
  
Onslaught's engine revved with distaste. Had he a mouth, he would have sneered. “Then I want no part of it. He's little better than the monster we serve.” He stalked away from Soundwave, internals threatening to overheat. He needed to get away from this talk before the coding shut him down.   
  
“Query: prefer Megatron?”   
  
“Of course not!”   
  
“Starscream's success inevitable.”   
  
Onslaught stilled again. Soundwave's offer was tempting. Too tempting for him to ignore.   
  
“Fine,” he spat out. “I'll think about it.” And consult his teammates. Onslaught was commander but like it or not, he'd need all of their agreement to make this kind of decision. They all wanted their freedom, but they had to valuate risks.   
  
There was always a cost.   
  
“Understood.”   
  
He heard Soundwave take off this time, perhaps the communications officer was making it a point to be less sneaky. Onslaught didn't know.   
  
In the distance, Vortex melted out of the shadows, shaking out his rotors to free them from the tight fold he'd used.   
  
“Later,” Onslaught said as he joined Vortex on the ridge, his interrogator's expression unreadable. “We'll discuss this later.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
He tried not to fidget. He knew he'd failed when he felt Frenzy laugh at him across their bond. Laserbeak, in contrast, sent soothing waves. Buzzsaw, busy with the boss, had nothing to offer.   
  
“Shut up,” Rumble mumbled as he crossed and uncrossed his arms. “You're not helping.” He returned Laserbeak's comfort however. She, at least, understood.   
  
Ravage transmitted a ping, letting Rumble know she was in position. If Bumblebee tried anything, Ravage would react. Rumble didn't think he would, however. It would gain Bumblebee and the scattered Autobots nothing. Whereas this meeting might gain them everything.   
  
“Boo.”   
  
Rumble jumped and whirled, dropping into a crouch as his defensive protocols leapt into action. He glared into the darkness, where the grubby frame of Bumblebee slid into view, as quiet as a whisper.   
  
“Scared you,” Bumblebee said, something wicked in his tone.   
  
“Did not,” Rumble retorted, rising back to his full height. He pretended to brush grit from his plating, hoping it was nonchalant. “I could have shot you.”   
  
“But you didn't.” Bumblebee stayed a fair distance away, his frame battle-ready, but the dimness to his optics betraying his undercharge. “You knew I was coming.”   
  
“Yeah, and apparently, I taught ya too well.”   
  
Bumblebee tilted his helm. “Sure you did.” He grinned and winked. “You can tell Ravage to come out. I'm not interested in killing either of you. Right now anyway.”   
  
“You got backup?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Then Rav is staying right where she is.”   
  
Bumblebee shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He leaned back against the rocks, but Rumble didn't miss the way his knees wobbled.   
  
Rumble sighed and dared get closer to Bumblebee. He pulled a cube from subspace and held it out. “Here.”   
  
“Charity?” Bumblebee arched a brow. “Do you feel sorry for me, Rumble?”   
  
He scowled. “Just take it.”   
  
Bumblebee straightened and accepted the cube, giving it a testing sniff. “Just like old times,” he murmured and sipped at the energon, his engine revving softly with approval. His free hand waved. “What does Soundwave want?”   
  
Rumble dropped back and perched on another ridge of stone. “You know he's not pulling the strings.”   
  
“He never does. Soundwave is many things, but a leader isn't one of them.” Bumblebee shifted his weight and got comfortable, though his grip on the energon was noticeably tight. “How'd Starscream convince him?”   
  
“How'd you know it was Starscream?”   
  
“Isn't it always?”   
  
Rumble smirked. “Point. And you'll have to ask the boss that. Whatever Screamer said, he ain't sharin'. What did your boss say?”   
  
“He knows.” Bumblebee's tone quieted, his optics briefly meeting Rumble's. “And he trusts me.”   
  
Rumble snorted. “Autobots.”   
  
“Yeah.” Bumblebee lowered himself, crouching back against the rock. “What's the deal, Rumble? What's Starscream offering?”   
  
“Freedom.” Rumble looked up at Bumblebee, his optics drinking in the sight now that there weren't blasters and battle and everything else between them. He wished they'd never had that fight. So many things would be different if Rumble hadn't stormed out in a fit of pique.   
  
“A truce. He wants to share Cyberton. He knows we're gettin' pretty close to the point of no return. We keep goin' like this and it's the end for everyone. Plus, he don't care about takin' over the universe.”   
  
“All he's ever wanted is Cybertron.”   
  
“Kinda.” Rumble rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “So. Work with us, get rid of Megatron, and you can do whatever you want after.”   
  
“That simple?”  
  
“Don't want to make it more complicated.”  
  
Bumblebee finished off the energon and tossed the empty cube back to Rumble. “Good.” He paused and looked at Rumble. “Boss said it's up to me. That I can decide whether to take this offer or walk away. So tell me, Rumble. Can I trust you?”   
  
Not Starscream. Not Soundwave.  
  
Rumble pushed to his pedes and moved closer to Bumblebee, close enough to touch, that the yellow mech could read the intent in his field. There was an ache there, a longing for something he'd let slip away eons ago and couldn't bear to do so again.   
  
In the back of his mind, the rest of his siblings had gone silent. Like Jazz had for Bumblebee, they left this decision to Rumble.   
  
Rumble crouched and looked up at Bumblebee, giving the Autobot the position of power. “Yes.”   
  
He waited, on bolts and brackets, for Bumblebee's reply. There was a lot of history between them. He wouldn't be surprised if Bumblebee stood up and walked away.   
  
But he didn't. Instead, he bowed his helm and murmured, “Primus forgive me,” before he met Rumble's visor.   
  
“Fine,” he said. “We're with you.”   
  
And something tight and noxious within Rumble eased.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Starscream's planning something.”   
  
Thundercracker snorted and tilted his wing, banking to the right. “Isn't he always?”   
  
Skywarp flitted in front of him, a dark and purple blur that cut against the brightness of the sun that had briefly snagged Cybertron. “This is different.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“Just wondering.”   
  
Thundercracker's path took him over and around Skywarp, a lazy dance between them that was almost fun. There wasn't much fun anymore. Not since Earth. Not since Starscream stopped sneering and started bowing to Megatron.   
  
Not that he ever explained why. He'd been more close-mouthed than usual, keeping everything close to the spark. Granted, their trine had never been the friendliest. Starscream was a hard mech to like. But still...  
  
“You don't just wonder,” Thundercracker said flatly.   
  
Skywarp chuckled. “True.”   
  
Then there was silence. Thundercracker luxuriated in it, enjoying the flush of heat against his wings, the emptiness of the sky. Below him, a ravaged Cybertron stripped by. Going this fast, one almost couldn't see the damage.   
  
“He wouldn't let us keep that Autobot,” Skywarp said, and there wasn't so much anger in his tone, but wistfulness. “And I swear I thought I heard him talking to Soundwave the other shift.”  
  
Thundercracker startled, stalling mid-flight. He reverted to root-mode and watched as Skywarp looped around, only to revert to root-mode as well. They hovered in mid-air, and Skywarp's face was inscrutable.   
  
“What about?”   
  
“Dunno.” Skywarp shrugged, but it was far from casual. There was a shrewd look to his optics, one he always got when he managed to focus his multi-tiered thinking onto a single task. “But I like this,” he finally said. “Flying and not fighting. I didn't think I would, but I do. It's nice.”  
  
Thundercracker tilted his helm. “What are you getting at, Warp?”   
  
“Just that, well, if Megatron has his way, we won't have this for much longer, you know?” Skywarp's gaze wandered away. Beneath them was Vos, stripped of it's glory, turning into a manufactory center like so many other places.   
  
Megatron was spreading them too thin. Not that it was Thundercracker's place to point that out. But Starscream wasn't doing it either. He was going along with whatever ridiculous scheme Megatron kept concocting.   
  
And true, it had won them the war. They'd beaten the Autobots. They'd retaken Cybertron. They'd gotten what they wanted.   
  
Kind of.   
  
“So I don't know what Starscream's planning, but I'm guessing... we're going to have to figure out what part we have to play in it,” Skywarp continued. He popped his thrusters, circling around Thundercracker. “And soon. My spark tells me that much.”   
  
His spark. Warp always did have a knack for intuition.   
  
“I don't want to go back to war,” Thundercracker murmured. He didn't personally care what happened to the Autobots but... he wasn't interested in dominating the universe either.   
  
Skywarp nodded. “One last time?”   
  
“One last time,” Thundercracker agreed and he reverted to alt-mode. “Now let's finish this patrol before Stars gets to shouting.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Is it done?”   
  
“Arrangements made.”   
  
Starscream's lips curved upright. “Good.”   
  
He stared out through the window at the shoddy beginnings of Megatron's empire. Soon to be Starscream's own. He caught Soundwave's reflection as the communications officer stepped up beside him, though still managing to cling to the shadows. Buzzsaw perched on his shoulder.   
  
Starscream was sure other cassettes were lurking about.   
  
“Any trouble with them?”   
  
“Starscream disliked.”   
  
He barked a laugh. “That's nothing new.” He examined his fingers, how they polished and gleamed. “But it's amazing what we're willing to do to get what we want.” He caught Soundwave's gaze in the window. “Even work with mechs we hate.”   
  
Soundwave made a noncommittal noise. “Autobots contacted also.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“Agreement made.”   
  
“I knew he'd listen to reason. Probably would have listened a lot sooner if he hadn't let that fool Prime convince him to be temperate.” Starscream had often wondered how Optimus kept those Special Ops members of his leashed so well.   
  
The Autobots might have actually won a bit sooner if they'd been willing to get their hands dirty. What point was holding on to morals if there was no one left alive to keep them? What did it gain?  
  
Weakness. Starscream sniffed. Weakness had lost them the war.   
  
“Perhaps.” Soundwave inclined his helm. “Communication intercepted.”   
  
Starscream's wings flicked. He turned to face Soundwave. “From who?”   
  
“Autobots.”   
  
Not anyone on Cybertron, Starscream imagined. Soundwave had the communication grid locked. These would have come from elsewhere. Off world. Not Earth. Those predacon fools wouldn't have been able to construct something with that capability. But... there were other Autobots out in the universe.   
  
Perhaps they were finally returning home.   
  
“Who leads them?”   
  
“Ultra Magnus.”   
  
“The Wreckers. Hm.” Starscream turned back toward the window, considering.   
  
On their own, the Wreckers could get away with quite a bit of damage before Megatron put them down. The Decepticons outnumbered them in every way. They were hardly a threat. Not that Starscream cared about what threatened Megatron's empire. But they could be useful. Only... Ultra Magnus was not like Jazz. He was as adamantly Autobot as Optimus Prime.   
  
Or, well, Optimus at any rate. There would never be another Prime. Megatron had seen to that. Starscream had been surprised the rusty fool was smart enough to do so. Starscream had no interest in seeing another Prime.   
  
“How far out?”   
  
“Close enough.”   
  
Starscream rapped his fingers on the window ledge. In the distance, three Seekers rose into the night. The Coneheads, he surmised. They were due to search the Sea of Rust for Autobot survivors. He wondered if they'd left their pet behind.   
  
“Then I suppose it's time we received a second distress signal from Earth,” Starscream mused aloud.   
  
“Understood.”   
  
Soundwave turned on a heel, as succinct in their discussion as everything else. Starscream watched him go, excitement building within his spark. It was going to happen sooner or later.   
  
All of this time watching and waiting and bowing and scraping. It would soon be worth it. He would see Megatron a smoldering husk and Cybertron in his grasp. And any Decepticon who didn't approve wouldn't have to live here.   
  
Soon.   
  
Starscream shivered.   
  
He couldn't wait.   
  
****


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Bumblebee, Ricochet, Que, Broadblast, Catapult, Soundwave, Frenzy, Rumble, Overlord, Red Alert, flashback Optimus/Jazz  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: forced self-service, forced exhibition, sex toys, humiliation, angst  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Dear Agony," Breaking Benjamin

It was easier, Optimus soon learned, when he cooperated. It was still humiliating as the Pit, but Megatron was less inclined to hurt him. Or get creative. He still used Optimus, manipulated his frame as if he owned it, but the pain all but vanished overnight.   
  
Cooperation also granted him more energon. Optimus was allowed to follow at Megatron's pedes with his tanks at forty percent rather than lingering round thirty. He also had yet to see the inside of the entertainment arena again.   
  
Granted, it had only been a week since their deal had been struck. But it was a week of measurable improvement. It was better than nothing. It was a slim hope that as much as he had failed his Autobots, he might still be able to help them.   
  
Besides, what was a little personal humiliation?  
  
Surely his Autobots had suffered worse?   
  
Today found him at Megatron's pedes in the command center. Which was par for the course. He tagged along wherever Megatron went and Megatron's favorite place was in his command center, holding court, king of his domain.   
  
Optimus' lead had been attached to a ring newly welded to Megatron's throne. He didn't need to keep the lead on Optimus anymore, but Megatron liked the sight of it.   
  
It proved ownership, he claimed.   
  
As did the displays.   
  
Optimus didn't know if today's was any worse or better. He sat on the floor, leaning back against Megatron's throne between the warlord's parted legs. His own were spread before him, knees wide, his interface array on full display. Megatron had ordered him to open his panels and keep them open and Optimus had obeyed.   
  
His gaze cast to the side. Shame burned through his lines. More than a few Decepticons had wandered by for a look. Many lingered to stare until Megatron barked at them to move along and get back to work. Those at communications one level below had the best seat in the house. In the background, Optimus could hear Red Alert droning on, each glyph like a stab to the spark.   
  
The vibrator hummed along happily, warming Optimus' array. It quickly became a constant companion. If Megatron was not taking Optimus' valve, then he was required to keep the vibrator within it. Sometimes, it was on. Most times, it was off. Optimus soon learned how to walk with it taking up space in his valve.   
  
At present, Megatron had it on the lowest setting and that was where he seemed content to keep it. Lubricant welled up around it, soaking Optimus' valve and forming a puddle beneath his aft. His performance determined whether he'd have to clean up the mess or Megatron would allow for a serving drone.   
  
“Touch yourself,” Megatron had ordered, and Optimus had lifted his hands on rote.   
  
It was bothersome how he almost couldn't bring himself to do it. How touching his own frame felt as much a violation as Megatron's hands upon him.   
  
He forced himself to do it anyway. He dragged his palms down his chestplate, around the ruins of his windshield. He hoped that cooperation would grant him repairs, a trip to the medbay, a chance to check on Ratchet.   
  
He touched his hips, his abdomen, his thighs. He stroked his neck, the seam of his chestplates. He measured the length of scars and dents, all evidence of Megatron's ownership. There wasn't a spot on him Megatron hadn't touched or left his mark.   
  
Optimus let his engine idle, a soft vibration that Sparkplug had taken for purring. It matched the low-grade vibration of the toy. It was an almost pleasant sensation. One that sent light bubbles of enjoyment through his processor.   
  
He skirted around his array, the happily buzzing vibrator and the tip of his spike, barely poking from the sheath. He avoided his array up until the moment Megatron nudged him with a knee.   
  
“Put on a show, Optimus,” he instructed, sounding bored. Optimus was close enough to read the fascination in his field. “We all want to see you overload.”   
  
Optimus quailed. Bad enough to be forced into pleasure. He didn't want to pull it from his frame with his own two hands. That made the lines blur. It made it harder to remember that this was all nonconsensual. That he'd asked for none of it.   
  
He should have fought harder.   
  
Optimus forced his dominant hand down, one finger circling the head of his spike. The other reached lower, for the vibrator dancing in his valve.   
  
“Leave the toy,” Megatron said. “Spike only.”   
  
Optimus' helm bowed. He dropped his hand away from his valve, letting it fall to the side. He didn't dare hamper the 'view' and focused on his spike with the other hand. He circled the tip with a finger before figuring that he'd have to manually extend it.   
  
His spike emerged, only the barest hint of lubricant slicking it. Optimus wrapped his fingers around the length and brushed his thumb over the head of it. He rubbed gently, trying to imagine he was elsewhere with anyone else. Arousal simmered in his valve, but his spike was being less than cooperative.   
  
Megatron tapped him with a pede again. “Spread your legs wider.”   
  
Optimus inched his knees and pedes apart, until there was nothing left to the imagination, feeling as though he were suddenly the star in a porno-vid. It was easier if he didn't look at anyone, if he stared blankly into the distance. Megatron never seemed to care if he was making optical contact or not.   
  
He kept his grip firm, sliding from root to tip, root to tip. Part of this was putting on a show and he knew that. He tried to imagine he was back on the Ark, perhaps with Jazz in his berth this time. Ironhide liked to watch him self-service but thinking of Ironhide was too painful. Ironhide was gone.   
  
Jazz, at least, was somewhere.   
  
Optimus held his spike between two fingers, dragging them up and down the sensor lines. His intakes hissed a little. His spike further pressurized. A bead of transfluid gathered at the tip. He pinched it between his fingers and spread the fluid over his spike, a small shudder wracking his frame.   
  
Jazz liked to tease. He liked to lay in front of Optimus, spread his legs, and prepare himself while Optimus watched. Jazz would describe in lewd detail every last thing he wanted Optimus to do to him until he was shivering on the brink of overload. Only then would Jazz allow Optimus to take him, plunging into his wet and dripping valve at the exact moment of overload.   
  
The mix of pleasure and pain had been Jazz's preference. Optimus was willing to provide it. Especially since his own need resulted in a hard and fast 'face that would drag several more screaming overloads from his third. Jazz always became a sated heap of Porsche by the time Optimus was done with him, which was a point of pride for Optimus.   
  
Jazz would do this little twist with his wrist, a squeezing twist, that always made him shudder.   
  
Optimus copied it now, felt the motion drag more charge. Pleasure burst in little pinpricks from his little used spike. His valve pulsed more fluid.   
  
It was a start.   
  
There. If he pretended that he wasn't being watched by a dozen Decepticons. That he wasn't sitting at Megatron's pedes self-servicing, this was almost pleasant.   
  
A commotion dragged Optimus' attention to the here and now. He surfaced from his thoughts, helm swinging toward the noise centered around the entrance to the command center. It was... cheering? But not for him. No, he'd lost most of his audience all of the sudden.   
  
“Decepticons!” Megatron bellowed, startling Optimus bad enough that he jumped. “Clear a path.”   
  
Most of his soldiers obeyed, skittering out of the way immediately. Through gaps in the crowd, Optimus could just make sight of a group of mechs, all dirty and various shades of color but with prominent Decepticon brands.   
  
Behind him, Megatron shifted, sitting further upright in his throne. He tapped Optimus' helm.   
  
“Don't stop,” he ordered.   
  
Optimus shuddered but began again, his hand stroking up and down his spike. A tingle was building in the base of his array, but he was still a long way from overload. At least a spike overload anyway.   
  
“Bring him forward,” Megatron demanded as he sat back in his throne, legs bracketing around Optimus as though staking claim.   
  
The group of dirty mechs emerged into view, none of them recognizable to Optimus. But he gasped when they threw their captive to the floor below Megatron's throne. Scuffed and covered in filth, Optimus would still know Bumblebee anywhere. The minibot's armor was dented and scraped. One of his helm horns was cracked. He was chained six ways to Sunday.   
  
Bumblebee struggled to push himself upright, every motion marked with pain. But he managed to halfway kneel, listing with fatigue as he sat back on his pedes. His optics were dim, flickering, his gaze traveling around the command center until they found Optimus. They widened.   
  
Optimus felt shame licking at his backstrut. Here he was, self-servicing for the Decepticons, bared all and sundry.   
  
He turned his optics away. He couldn't bear to look at Bumblebee. Better, instead, to look at his Autobot's captors, a group of Decepticons Optimus had never seen before. Though that wasn't anything unusual. More and more Decepticons were returning to Cybertron.   
  
No Autobots had arrived, however. Optimus didn't know if it was because they knew to stay away. Or if Megatron was simply blowing up their transports the minute they came in range. He suspected it was more the latter.   
  
“Well, well, well,” Megatron said, amusement ripe in his vocals. “What do we have here?”   
  
“Found 'im scrabbling about in the Wastelands,” one of the Decepticons bragged, stepping to the head of the group. His chestplates puffed out, his visor gleamed. He was, obviously, the leader. “Tried ta filch from us. Almost didn't realize he was an Autobot under all the crud.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I see. And you are?”   
  
“Th' name's Ricochet.” A black thumb pointed to the mech's chestplate and the pristine Decepticon sigil. “This here's my crew. Que and Broadblast and Catapult. We were out cruisin' the Andulie quadrant when we got the all call.”   
  
Megatron made a thoughtful noise. “Soundwave?”   
  
Motion at the edge of Optimus' peripheral view drew his attention to the aforementioned mech. Up until now, Soundwave had quietly been working at the console to Megatron's right. He had been out of Optimus' direct sight and so he hadn't paid much attention to Soundwave.   
  
“Identification confirmed,” Soundwave droned. “Database supports claims. Former commander: Sky-Byte.”   
  
“Yeah.” Ricochet scratched at his chin and looked up at the ceiling. “He kinda... died? There was this planet. And this thing. And it ate metal and the boss took it as a challenge and he kinda...”  
  
“Lost,” the one called Que supplied with a giggle. Little faux-wings, like a spoiler, twitched on his back. “Such a shame.”   
  
“So we got the all call and came here,” Ricochet continued, spreading his hands. He bobbed up and down on his pedes as though he couldn't contain his energy. “Landed yesterday. Saw this one creeping about.” He shrugged. “So we snatched 'im.”   
  
“We figured he would make a nice present for you, Lord Megatron,” Broadblast said with a deep bow. His vocals were deep, resonating. He was the largest of the four, almost twice the size of the others and five times the size of Catapult.   
  
Megatron made a thoughtful noise in his chassis. His legs pushed harder at Optimus' shoulders. He leaned forward, peering down at the gathered Decepticons and their shivering captive.   
  
“You are allowed to keep what you capture,” Megatron said, gesturing toward Bumblebee. “Were you aware of that?”  
  
The four mechs exchanged glances. Ricochet rubbed the back of his helm. “Someone said somethin' but...” He trailed off and looked hesitant and small wonder.   
  
No one wanted to spit on Lord Megatron's generosity after all.   
  
“We don't want an Autobot,” Catapult piped up. He planted his hands on his hips and looked up at Megatron. “Too much trouble to take care of. Broadblast is a shuttle, you know.”   
  
Broadblast certainly looked large enough to be subspacing some mass. No wonder Ricochet's team had been able to wander around the universe.   
  
“I see.” Megatron's fingers rapped on the arm of his throne. “Well, the Race Track Patrol would be next in line, but considering their failure on Earth--”  
  
“Lord Megatron.”   
  
Optimus blinked as did many of the observing Decepticons. Soundwave had taken another step forward, tilting his helm in a bow to Megatron. That was highly unusual.   
  
“Soundwave,” Megatron acknowledged. “Do you have something to add?”   
  
“Request Autobot.”   
  
Amusement trickled into Megatron's field. “Well, that is a surprise. You've not shown any interest before.”   
  
Optimus, too, was surprised. Given the conversations he'd had with both Frenzy and Soundwave, he'd have thought Soundwave wouldn't want one. The idea of slave Autobots had seemed detestable to him. Had he changed his mind?  
  
Or was his intention to try and protect Bumblebee? It would be a grand gesture on Soundwave's part, to be sure. But it carried risks.   
  
“Autobot would be gift.” Soundwave's field flattened, as though embarrassed. His hand touched his chestplate, knocking against the opaque glass. “For cassettes.”   
  
There was a moment of startled silence before Megatron roared with laughter, slapping the arm of his chair.   
  
“Really.” Amusement was rich in his tone, jostling his frame and in turn, jostling Optimus. “You want to make the Autobot a pet for your cassettes?” Megatron's laugh echoed in the command center. “By all means then. Take him. He's yours.”   
  
Soundwave's bow was low and grateful. “Thank you, Lord Megatron.” He returned upright, pressing a button on his frame. “Frenzy, Rumble, eject.”   
  
His cassettes emerged, transforming to their bipedal modes before they hit the ground. They grinned up at their carrier, twin expressions of amusement.  
  
It occurred to Optimus that they were the same size as Catapult, who was smaller even than the average minibot.   
  
“What's up, boss?” they asked in perfect tandem, reminding Optimus in that moment of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who at the oddest times, would prove that they were twins. His spark gave a pang.   
  
Were they even still alive? Or had Shockwave killed them?   
  
“Slave acquired. Bring to quarters.”   
  
“Slave?” Frenzy said. He turned slowly and his visor lit up at the sight of Bumblebee, who had yet to say a word. Perhaps it was because of fatigue.   
  
Or maybe it had something to do with the crumpled plating around his intake. Optimus supposed his Autobots had a habit of spitting insults at their captors. They tended to show up with crushed intakes.   
  
“Oh. Is he for us?” Rumble swaggered up to Bumblebee and circled around him. “Kinda dirty, isn't he?”   
  
“We'll just have to clean him up, bro.” Frenzy joined his twin and they slapped palms, glee rampant in their field. “All for us.”   
  
Optimus' tank churned. Bumblebee's helm bowed, his gaze downcast. A visible shudder raced across his frame.   
  
A low rumble in Soundwave's chassis attracted the attention of his cassettes. They both glanced at him before grabbing Bumblebee, one on each side.   
  
“Time ta go, Bumblebrat,” Rumble said.   
  
It required both Cassettes to lift Bumblebee, who seemed to be having trouble getting his pedes underneath him. It hurt Optimus to see the yellow mech in such a state.   
  
He watched them go, Bumblebee barely putting up a fight. Given his condition, he likely didn't have the wherewithal to do so.   
  
Ricochet coughed a ventilation into his palm. “So....” He tilted his frame to the left and right. “Any way a couple of lost Decepticons can get a berth around here?”   
  
“That can be arranged.” The throne rattled as Megatron sat back, visibly relaxing. His legs became less a cage around Optimus and more a support. “There's plenty of room in the barracks. Ask Soundwave for your future assignments.”   
  
Ricochet tilted his helm. “Much obliged, my lord.” He spun on a heelstrut and gestured to his teammates. “Come on. I don't know 'bout you guys, but I've been dreamin' about a berth for years.”   
  
Optimus watched them go, a frown pulling on his lipplates. There was something familiar about them, as though he should recognize them. But he didn't. They'd stared at him, not that Optimus paid that any attention. All Decepticons tended to stare at their leader's slave.   
  
“Lord Megatron's generosity is appreciated,” Soundwave monotoned. He dipped his helm in another bow and returned to his station.   
  
“Nice to see someone around here is earning their keep,” Megatron muttered, subvocal. Then he tapped on Optimus' helm. “I didn't tell you to stop.”  
  
Optimus hunched his shoulders. He'd forgotten, in the display, about his own. He forced his hand back into action, stroking over his spike and manipulating the building charge. The pool beneath him had gotten no smaller, nor had the sensation in his valve eased.   
  
He leaned back against the throne, only to startle as the vibrator doubled its intensity. Optimus bit back a groan, his hips rocking down against the spike within his valve. It was too strong to ignore, shifting the soft warmth to a buzzing heat.   
  
His spike fully pressurized, borrowing on the pleasure ripe within his valve. Optimus sagged as his spike tingled, charge crackling around the base of it. His hips rocked into his own grasp, the head of his spike seeping transfluid. His cooling fans clicked on.   
  
He shuttered his optics. Megatron's calves pushed against his shoulders. Pedes hooked under his knees, keeping him spread. His hip joints ached. Optimus shuddered.   
  
“Are you going to share him anytime soon, Lord Megatron?” one of the Decepticons asked, the lust in his tone unmistakable.   
  
Optimus didn't even have to look to know it was Overlord. The massive super-soldier had been watching Optimus the longest, as though the one taste he'd gotten wasn't enough. Optimus knew that while being Megatron's possession was terrible, being Overlord's would have been worse.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I know you envy my pet, Overlord. Perhaps if you'd manage to capture one of your own, you'd have one to keep.”   
  
“I would have taken the yellow one,” Overlord said and there was a deep, throaty engine that revved, rumbling the floor.   
  
Dread struck at Optimus' spark. Overlord would have destroyed Bumblebee.   
  
“Yes, well, rewards go to the loyal first.” He all but heard Megatron's smirk. “And the competent. Funny how the rest of the Autobots keep eluding you.”   
  
Optimus' hand slowed as he listened to them, talking about his Autobots as though they were chattel. Prizes to be divvied out. It made the anger fester, dull as it was.   
  
“Send me to Earth. I'll take care of that problem for you,” Overlord said and there was a wicked glee in his vocals. “Won't want to keep any of them but figure I can trade?”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “Yes. Let's see if you can convince the Coneheads to surrender their tracker or Onslaught, his sniper, for a Dinobot.”   
  
Optimus startled. This was the first he'd heard of Bluestreak, for who else would be a recognized sniper? And the Dinobots! He hadn't known any of them lived, save Swoop.   
  
Megatron's hand returned to his helm. “You're slacking, Optimus,” he said.   
  
“Maybe he needs some assistance. I volunteer.” Overlord leered.   
  
Optimus pressed against Megatron's leg and picked up the pace again, stroking himself faster. There was a certain kind of pleasure coiling within his array, a background buzz that meant overload was eventually inevitable. His frame had trained itself in such a short time. He could overload, vaguely feel the pleasure of it, but still, it remained a distant sensation.   
  
Megatron chuckled. “I don't believe my pet likes you, Overlord.”   
  
“Such a shame, too. We had so much fun together.”   
  
“I remember.”   
  
There was a tug to Optimus' lead, and he jerked, swinging his helm up toward Megatron. The warlord crooked a finger at him.   
  
“Come up here, Optimus,” he said, and patted his lap. “Overlord wants a closer look.” His optics flicked to Overlord. “But only a look.”   
  
Overlord grinned and backed up a pace. “I'll keep my hands to myself.”   
  
Optimus shivered but climbed to his pedes. It was humiliating to climb into Megatron's lap like a pet, but once he got there, Megatron arranged him to his liking anyway. He mechhandled Optimus with little effort, spreading Optimus' legs over the arms of the throne, opening him up wide. One arm looped around Optimus' chest, keeping him pinned against Megatron's chest.   
  
“Now,” Megatron purred into his audial. “Continue.”   
  
Optimus gnawed on the inside of his cheek and forced his hand back into motion. The vibrator was merrily buzzing away within his valve, forcing his hips into a rocking dance atop Megatron's frame, no matter how much Optimus tried to still himself. He stroked his spike in long, squeezing pulls. The faster he overloaded, the faster this display could be finished.   
  
Overlord's gaze on him wasn't helping.   
  
“You have him so well trained,” Overlord commented. He paced slowly back in forth, his optics locked on Optimus, as though being still made it difficult to not touch.   
  
Megatron stroked a finger down the side of Optimus' helm and it was all he had not to turn away from it. “He's learned his place,” Megatron replied.   
  
Optimus shuddered. He bit his tongue, literally, on the urge to retort something sharp and rude.   
  
There would be consequences.   
  
_Lose only what you can afford_.   
  
If he had any chance of anything, he needed to be undamaged and fueled. The more he obeyed, the more likely Megatron was to loosen the leash.   
  
He offlined his optics and tried to focus on the pleasure. He jerked when the vibrator tipped into the third stage. Optimus hissed air through his vents, frame pressing back against Megatron's. He felt more lubricant seep from around the toy, dripping down into Megatron's lap.   
  
Primus, but he'd be made to clean that later. Frag it all.   
  
“You'll have to teach me some of your techniques,” Overlord said. “Though it's in my favor if he does disobey.”   
  
Megatron's hand curled around Optimus, gripping his jaw. He prodded at Optimus' mouth with a finger, demanding entrance. “Very true. Optimus, suck.”   
  
He grimaced and drew Megatron's finger into his mouth. He lapped at the digit, smelling of grease and Primus knew what else, and sucked on it.   
  
Overload built within him, less pleasure and more demand, the charge cycling endlessly between his valve and his spike. He felt himself shaking, his frame taking on motion of its own as he rolled atop Megatron. His valve clenched. His engine raced.   
  
He almost felt as though he saw himself from a distance, that it was someone else writhing on Megatron's lap like a desperate piece of shareware.   
  
“Don't make a mess, Optimus,” Megatron demanded, nipping at his audial. His finger hooked on Optimus' glossa, rubbing over it and pressing it down, making sure to rub every inch of it.   
  
Beneath his aft, Optimus felt heat rising in Megatron's panel. The warlord always did like a good show. That was no comfort to Optimus. He'd be the one required to take care of it.   
  
Megatron would probably give him the choice again. Like yesterday, when he'd palmed his spike and made Optimus decide if he'd rather swallow it or get fragged.   
  
He'd opted to get fragged, thinking that meant Megatron would take out the vibrator and leave it out. But no, Megatron had simply replaced it when he was done, trapping his fluids within Optimus. Even now, part of what dripped from him wasn't lubricant alone.   
  
He'd never get Megatron out of him at this rate.   
  
“You'd better overload soon,” Megatron continued, and his vocals were taunting. “Otherwise I might just let Overlord lend you a hand.”   
  
Optimus made a low noise of disgust, he refused to name it a whimper, and bent his attention to his equipment. It wasn't difficult. The overload was there. The heat and pleasure pinging back and forth, building to a rapid crescendo.   
  
The hardest part was letting go. Allowing himself to overload, self-pleasure, here in front of all these Decepticons, knowing how vulnerable it made him.   
  
Optimus groaned and tried not to think about it. An impossible attempt. He could feel their stares, hear their spinning fans, their rapid ventilations. He could feel the rapid pulse of Megatron's spark.   
  
Megatron's finger pushed in and out of his mouth, a mimicry of oral fragging, his finger probing deeper and deeper with each thrust. Oral lubricant dribbled down the sides of Optimus' lips. His jaw ached from attempting not to bite down.   
  
Optimus' free hand gripped at the arm of Megatron's chair. His hips rocked on Megatron's lap, a light scrape of metal on metal.   
  
His spike throbbed in his grip. Optimus squeezed, thumbed the tip, and then dragged his fist firmly down.   
  
Overload snatched him at him, through and through. Optimus shook in Megatron's hold, quick to put his free hand over his spike to catch his transfluid as it emerged.   
  
_Don't make a mess_ , Megatron had ordered. Better a warning. Any mess Optimus made, Optimus had to clean. Usually with his glossa.   
  
Pleasure flashed through his frame, there and gone again. Optimus sagged. His overloads were getting shorter and shorter. They barely heated him anymore. He lubricated, but it was beginning to feel like a defense mechanism.   
  
He wondered if he'd get to the point where he couldn't overload at all. Or if he did, if there'd be any pleasure in it.   
  
The vibrator continued to buzz away and Optimus shifted, uncomfortable now. The vibrations were surging against sensitive nodes.   
  
Megatron's finger removed itself from Optimus' mouth. “Good pet,” he said. He reached down, petted Optimus' rippling valve, a tap to his external node making Optimus jerk. “Now clean yourself up.”   
  
“I have no cloths,” Optimus replied. His vocals were riddled with static.   
  
Overlord roared a laugh. “Cloths, he says. I thought you had him better trained, Megatron.”   
  
“I do. His stubbornness persists,” Megatron replied, but there was humor, rather than anger in his vocals. His hands groped at Optimus' chestplates, dragging down the jagged seam between his windshields. Megatron never did bother to get those fixed. “You have a glossa, Optimus. Use it.”   
  
At least it was his own transfluid.   
  
Resigned, Optimus lifted his hands to his mouth and licked them clean. There was a lot less transfluid than he would have expected. A few drops on one hand, a thin spurt on the other. Maybe Megatron really had broken him.   
  
Megatron rumbled his approval, his hand still petting Optimus' valve. He skirted around the lubricant, but tapped on the end of the vibrating spike.   
  
“Close your panel,” he murmured.   
  
Optimus fought back a groan and obeyed, closing his panel and once again trapping the toy within him. His entire lower frame was shaking and he couldn't seem to make it stop.   
  
“Now get back to work, Overlord, I've let you dally long enough,” Megatron said. “You've had your show.”   
  
Optimus onlined his optics and instantly regretted the action as he caught Overlord's burning gaze immediately. He'd never seen such... hunger. Not even all the times Megatron had bent him to his will. It was unsettling.   
  
“I am always grateful for your generosity,” Overlord purred. There was very little sincerity in his tone. He smirked as he turned away.   
  
Megatron grumbled something, only Optimus was close enough to hear it and even then it was so mumbled, he couldn't make it out. But Megatron did shift beneath him, his hands petting over Optimus' concealed array, including his retracted spike. It had sunk so completely within the sheath that not even the head was visible.   
  
The vibrator abruptly shut off and Optimus went limp with relief. He hadn't realized how tense he was. Megatron's hand moved away, giving him room to cycle his spike panel shut as well.   
  
“You've made a mess in my lap, Optimus,” Megatron said. “Clean it up.”   
  
Optimus sighed. “Your command is my duty.” He unhooked his legs from the throne and made to slide down from Megatron's lap, but a hand gripped the back of his neck.   
  
Optimus froze. Megatron's grip was unyielding. All he had to do was squeeze and Optimus would find himself a resident of the medbay once again.   
  
“Your tone could be far more respectful, Optimus,” Megatron said mildly.   
  
He slumped, hands forming fists. He refused to look at any of the Decepticons. “I obey. What more do you want of me?”   
  
“Respect.”   
  
Optimus barely refrained from snorting aloud. “You can make me do many things, but that is not one of them.”   
  
Megatron released Optimus and Optimus took the opportunity to slide back to the ground. The vibrator shifted in his valve, causing a wave of discomfort. Optimus sighed.   
  
He turned and knelt between Megatron's legs, who obliged by spreading his thighs and leaving room for Optimus to notch between them. Lubricant was splattered on Megatron's thighs, the throne beneath him, and his pelvic array.   
  
“We'll work on it,” Megatron said. He looked down at him, helm tilted. “You can start by calling me 'master'.”   
  
Optimus grimaced. “How petty of you.”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “Call it what you will. Now get to work.”   
  
“ _Anomaly in Sector Twelve_.”   
  
Optimus blinked. Megatron did as well. There was a moment of stunned surprise. Optimus had gotten to the point where he more or less tuned out Red Alert's constantly running updates in the background. It hurt to hear his friend reduced to such and for his own sake, Optimus tried not to think about it too often.   
  
Never before had he heard an anomaly.   
  
In a flash, Megatron jerked to his pedes and Optimus had to scramble out of the way before he was kicked. The chain brought him up short, but gave him enough room to crouch by the side of the throne, out of Megatron's way.   
  
“Soundwave, report!” Megatron snapped as he strode across the floor, making a beeline for Red Alert.   
  
He'd gone silent after declaring the anomaly.   
  
“Surveillance system error,” Soundwave reported from the opposite side of the command center. “Rebooting now.”   
  
“A glitch in the system?” Someone else asked and it took Optimus a moment to place the vocals as belonging to Onslaught. The well-behaved Combaticon leader rarely spoke and was often assigned to the back corner of the room. He hadn't risen from his chair, but there was a tension in his frame.   
  
Despite programming, Megatron still did not trust the Bruticus gestalt. Onslaught would forever be paying for his treachery it seemed.   
  
“Negative,” Soundwave said. Optimus heard the hesitation in his tone. “Sabotage likely.”   
  
“Sabotage!” Megatron roared, and his fist impacted the top of Red Alert's console, making several of the monitors glitch.   
  
Red Alert didn't so much as blink or startle.   
  
“ _Anomaly in Sector Twelve_ ,” he repeated.   
  
“I am aware of that, you glitch,” Megatron growled. His gaze flicked to the nearest Decepticon grunt, a mech Optimus didn't recognize. “Correct the anomaly. Get him back to task. Soundwave?”   
  
The Communications Officer came into view, standing at attention. “No surveillance. No video. No audio. Sabotage confirmed.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“No identity. Suspect: Autobot.”   
  
Megatron snarled and stomped across the floor. His field was a violent whip, striking Decepticon and Autobot slave alike.   
  
“I realize that. Jazz?”   
  
Soundwave's helm inclined by a fraction. “Likely.”   
  
Megatron swore and his fist swung out again, slamming into a support column. It shuddered and grit flaked down.   
  
“Why has no one found him yet? He is one Autobot!”   
  
Silence. No one had an answer. No one offered an excuse or an explanation. Everyone was suddenly far too busy to be looking at their leader. Shoulders hunched. Wings drooped. Visors and optics dimmed.   
  
No one wanted the blame.   
  
Optimus was content to keep still and quiet himself. It was only a matter of time before the blame shifted his direction.   
  
There was going to be pain.   
  
“You are all incompetent,” Megatron snarled and his hand whipped toward his comm system. “Starscream! Get you and your trine to Sector Twelve now!”  
  
There was a pause and Megatron's fury intensified. “I don't care if you're in recharge, just do it!”   
  
Hands forming fists, Megatron's gaze whipped around the command center, forcing many a Decepticon to quail.   
  
“Overlord, you, too,” he snapped. “You want an Autobot? Fine. Get me Jazz and you can have whichever one you want. I don't care who I have to take him from. Got it?”   
  
Overlord's optics lit up. “Yes, Lord Megatron. I understand.” His parting bow was far from subservient. He strode from the room, as full of himself as any one mech could be.   
  
“That goes for all of you!” Megatron continued, raising his vocals to be heard, so loud that they echoed. “For every Decepticon. Whoever brings me the Autobot spy can have whichever toy they want.”   
  
Excitement zipped through the room, overriding the fearful silence that had been present. The Decepticons started murmuring to themselves.   
  
“Get to it. Now.”   
  
Megatron stormed back toward his throne as the command center became a flurry of activity. Those who had been hanging around for lack of better duties were either leaving or trading with others, eager to get to the hunt.   
  
Optimus' spark sank.   
  
Before, the hunt for Autobots had been haphazard at best. An aside. Megatron knew they were beaten, without resources and scattered. He hadn't made acquiring them a concern. He'd had search parties and patrol parties with the intent of capturing Autobots, but for the most part, he hadn't been worried.   
  
Now he'd declared open season. Now every Decepticon eager for their own toy was going to spend their off duty time scouring the surface of Cybertron for Autobots. There would be nowhere to run or hide. No way to time or track patrol routes.   
  
“Soundwave,” Megatron snapped, his baleful stare focused on his communications officer. “I want answers.”   
  
Soundwave cycled a ventilation. “Yes, Lord Megatron. Apologies for failure. Will restructure the surveillance system at once.”   
  
“See that you do.” Megatron vented a burst of heat and then his optics found Optimus'. They narrowed. “Contact Shockwave. It seems the Autobots are due another lesson.”   
  
“Clarification: lesson?” Soundwave asked.   
  
Megatron stared down at Optimus, a cruel light in his optics. “Yes. What happens when I am angry. Tell Shockwave to bring Mirage to the arena. Surely he's done poking around the noble brat's internals by now.”   
  
Optimus' optics widened with realization. Of everyone Optimus had seen in the arena, Mirage would be the smallest. He was built to be small and silent, lithe and deadly.   
  
“No,” he said, shaking his helm. “Megatron, don't. Don't do this.”   
  
“And why not, Optimus?”   
  
Megatron's hand snapped forward, gripping the lead near where it connected to Optimus' collar. He jerked Optimus up by it, forcing Optimus to scramble to get his pedes beneath him lest his intake be constricted.   
  
“Your spy seems intent on aggravating me. I am only returning the favor,” Megatron said.   
  
Optimus grabbed the chain, a vain effort to reduce the strain on his intake. “You'll kill him.”   
  
“You say that as though I care whether the brat lives or dies.”   
  
Optimus' engine raced. “He's no use to you dead.”  
  
“Not much use alive either.” Megatron tilted his helm, the rage in his field still fresh and grating. It rasped against Optimus', as painful as a slap to the face.   
  
Optimus worked his intake. “Don't,” he said, and yes, he was begging. It was humiliating, but what did he have left for his Autobots but his humiliation? “Please. I'll... I'll do anything you want me to do. Just... don't.”   
  
Was it better that Mirage stay in Shockwave's clutches? Optimus didn't know. But to put him in the arena? At the mercy of whatever group of Decepticons Megatron felt like rewarding? Especially with the caveat that he didn't care whether Mirage lived or died?  
  
What if it were the triple-changers again? Astrotrain and Blitzwing? They would tear Mirage apart! What if it were Black Shadow or Sixshot?   
  
Megatron laughed, but there was no amusement in it. He loosened his grip on Optimus' chain, giving him the opportunity to get his pedes firmly beneath him.   
  
“I already know you'll behave,” Megatron said. “But this is the fault of your subordinate. He can blame himself.”   
  
“It won't work,” Optimus retorted. He met Megatron's gaze. “You'll only make him angrier.”   
  
“That's fine. I have plenty more Autobots where Mirage came from.” Megatron's optics glittered and he jerked Optimus closer, enough that he could feel Megatron's heated ventilations. “Unless you think you can order him to stand down? Turn himself in? I might even be lenient enough to let him live as a slave instead of executing him.”   
  
Optimus' insides slushed with ice. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I'm not a Prime anymore. You saw to that. I have no authority.”   
  
“Then there's nothing you can do.”   
  
Optimus lowered his gaze. “What if...” Oh, Primus. He didn't want to do this, but he'd survived it once before. He could do it again. “What if I took his place?”   
  
Megatron chuckled. “You Autobots and your penchant for sacrifice.” He tipped his forehelm against Optimus, a parody of intimacy. “No.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
“Because I said so.” Megatron's free hand grasped his hip, pulling him closer. Optimus' hands were trapped between their frames, all that kept them from being flush together. “You are my pet. I can't let others think that my Autobot manipulates me, can I?”  
  
Disgust swelled within Optimus. The loathing returned and he knew it must have entered his field because Megatron laughed again.   
  
“But,” he said, mouth traveling to Optimus' audial and nibbling it. “Because you offered, I will do you a courtesy. I'll make sure they don't kill him. I'll even be so nice as to make sure none of them are, say, a triple-changer.”   
  
Had Megatron meant to do so all along and wanted to see if Optimus would beg? It was too difficult to tell.   
  
“Now, I believe gratitude is in order, my pet,” Megatron said. He drew back, loosening the chain enough to give Optimus plenty of slack. “Thank me for being merciful.”   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. Of course. It wouldn't be a conversation with Megatron without a little shame thrown in for good measure.   
  
“Thank you,” he forced out.   
  
“Mmm. That's a start. But I think you can do better.”   
  
Optimus ground his denta. It wasn't hard to guess what Megatron wanted. So under Megatron's gaze and that of the Decepticons – including fragging Soundwave and whoever else lingered – Optimus lowered himself to his knees. He prostrated himself before Megatron and waited for the warlord to offer him a pede.   
  
He didn't have to wait long. Megatron slid his left pede toward Optimus, his field reading of eagerness. At least the violent fury had eased, leaving a cross irritation behind.   
  
“Thank you,” Optimus said again and he pressed a kiss to the tip of Megatron's pede, “for your mercy.”   
  
“Who are you thanking, Optimus?”   
  
Argh.   
  
He ground his denta so hard he heard metal shriek.   
  
Another kiss, the taste of grit on his lips. His internals rippled, the urge to purge rising within him. Optimus fought it back. His energy levels hovered at forty percent. He needed to keep them that way.   
  
“Thank you, Master,” he said, pressed low to the ground, his aft in the air.   
  
“ _Sector Thirteen, clear_ ,” Red Alert droned on in the background. They must have gotten him out of the loop.   
  
Megatron dropped the lead entirely. It clattered as it hit the floor around Optimus. He flinched away from the noise. His pede nudged against Optimus' lips.   
  
Optimus obeyed the unspoken demand. He kissed it again and pressed his forehelm to it. His hands lay against the ground, palms pointed upward.   
  
“You are welcome,” Megatron finally said.   
  
Optimus offlined his optics.   
  
There were not enough apologies in the world.   
  
“Soundwave, find me some Decepticons,” Megatron said, and Optimus could feel his regard, pouring down on Optimus. “Let's make them some nice Decepticons, shall we?”   
  
“Understood, my lord.”   
  
“Does that suffice, my pet?”   
  
And what else could he do but press another loathsome kiss to Megatron's pede and whisper, “Thank you, Master.”   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Someone (forgive me, I can't remember who) asked last chapter about Barricade's team and their pet Autobot. That, my friends, was a poorly worded sentence and mistake on my part. What Megatron states in this chapter is correct: it's not that they have an Autobot, but that they are next in line for one. Or were, rather, given their recent failures. :)
> 
> And what's this? Soundwave finally taking a slave? Hmmmm. And just who are these new arrivals? Tick, tock Megatron. ;)
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters this chapter: Megatron/Optimus, Ricochet+Que+Broadblast/Mirage, Overlord/Optimus, Jazz  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Warnings this chapter: all of the previous warnings plus shock torture, genital harm, and Overlord  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "This is War," 30 Seconds to Mars

  
Starscream found nothing in Sector Twelve. A fact which enraged Megatron and prompted an old-fashioned expression of his displeasure.   
  
It was hardly Starscream's fault, but that didn't stop Megatron from laying into him with angry fists. Optimus watched it with an odd sort of distance. He never thought he'd feel sympathy for Starscream, but he did.   
  
There was also a deeper, more terrible part of him, that was glad it had been Starscream and not himself bearing the brunt of Megatron's fury. Starscream was far more used to it than Optimus was, no matter how long Megatron had claimed him.   
  
Then the reports started rolling in.   
  
An explosion in the ruins of Tarn.   
  
Sabotage in a weapons manufactory.   
  
Theft of a supply depot in Vos.   
  
Daily anomalies in the sectors. Poor Red Alert was glitching on a constant basis. At least, until Trepan paid him a visit and fiddled with his processor. He still reported errors, but he didn't glitch every time he found him.   
  
Soundwave's surveillance system crashed again. He paid for it, too. Megatron wasn't used to his favorite making mistakes. He reminded Soundwave how his Decepticons paid for failure.   
  
Starscream emerged from the medbay by the time Soundwave staggered into it, broken and bleeding. No one was safe.   
  
It was all little things. Guerrilla tactics. Meant to aggravate, confuse, delay. All of it could be rebuilt. Megatron had all the resources to do so.   
  
It still managed to make Megatron furious. It made Optimus' life a lot harder. He bore the brunt of it, what little Megatron didn't take out on his soldiers.   
  
Fury and irritation made Megatron far more cruel. It made him insatiable, taking Optimus over and over again, mouth and valve and spike, until he was raw and aching, battered and bruised. No amount of good behavior prompted mercy from his master, while bad behavior incensed him.   
  
Optimus endured.   
  
It was the least Optimus could do. He owed the Autobots this much. An angry Megatron was a reckless one. The Decepticons outnumbered the Autobots, but now they were spread across Cybertron. From pole to pole.   
  
The only one who might have cautioned otherwise was Starscream, but he held his glossa. Why he'd stopped agitating Megatron, Optimus didn't know. One too many beatings perhaps. Maybe it didn't matter. It was that very cohesion that had led to the Autobots' doom.   
  
They'd always relied on the discord between Megatron and his second. It made it easier to defeat them.   
  
No one wanted to be close to Megatron right now. Optimus had no other choice.   
  
Shockwave, one of many desperate to appease their furious lord and master, finally offered up Mirage. He was done, he claimed, though there was disappointment in his vocals. As though there was more use he could get out of Mirage.   
  
No amount of begging, pleading, or good behavior from Optimus could convince Megatron to change his mind. Megatron was determined to make someone pay for the damage to his empire. Worse, all it did was encourage Megatron to bring Optimus along, to bear witness to Mirage's pain. This time, he wouldn't even have the distance of a vidscreen to separate them.   
  
The arena was loud, raucous with activity. There were noticeably fewer Decepticons this time, likely still spread out over Cybertron. But no worry! Because Reflector was there, recording and broadcasting.   
  
Megatron wanted to ensure that Jazz and any remaining Autobots would see it.   
  
He sat at the very front, seats that would afford him the very best view. Optimus knelt beside him, arms bound at his back in case he “got any ideas,” according to Megatron. As though Optimus was going to leap the low barrier and go charging out into the ring to protect Mirage.   
  
He wouldn't get more than a step before Megatron activated the shock collar. All it would gain him was pain.   
  
Megatron's hand rested on his helm, ensuring that Optimus could not turn away from his view of the arena. He tried offlining his optics, but his master would not tolerate it.   
  
It hurt to see Mirage, especially given his current state. The noble was in the center of the ring. They had gone to great lengths to make him look appealing. He'd been buffed and repainted until he shone like new. It almost made one look past the shackles and the collar around his intake. Or the thin, silvery lines of recent welds, obviously places where Shockwave had been “tinkering.”  
  
Three Decepticons roared onto the scene -- two on wheels, one from the sky -- transforming and forming a circle around Mirage. They were all the new mechs.   
  
Ricochet, Optimus remembered. He'd brought in Bumblebee. He was also not much bigger than Mirage, same height, greater mass. Hopefully, he would be a “nicer” Decepticon.   
  
Of his companions, Que was slightly larger than Ricochet and Broadblast was the largest of them. Shuttles often were. Their smallest companion, Optimus could not recall his designation at the moment, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was part of the crowd.   
  
“They refused to keep your Autobot, but they leapt upon this opportunity,” Megatron murmured, as though driving a stake through Optimus' spark. “Que, Soundwave tells me, was their interrogator. This should prove to be interesting.”   
  
Optimus vibrated with outrage, but he clamped his mouth shut. Since when had chastising Megatron for his actions done him any good?  
  
A large gong sounded, signaling the Cons to begin their torment.   
  
Broadblast was the first to move, faster than Optimus would have given the large shuttle credit for. He snatched Mirage from behind, grabbing the noble's wrists and holding them high above his helm. Not enough to lift him off the ground, but enough to have his pedes scrambling to keep beneath him and ease the strain on his shoulders.   
  
Que and Ricochet conferred, Que juggling something in his hands that looked like a cross between an interfacing toy and a torture device. All jagged edges and ridges and far too large for someone like Mirage to take comfortably.   
  
Optimus' own valve ached in sympathy, stretched as it was around the false spike Megatron kept in him at all times.   
  
Ricochet was the first to approach Mirage. He grinned, visor alit with a crimson gleam, and grabbed Mirage's face with both hands. He jerked Mirage's helm forward, kissing him with violence. Que circled around the two of them like some sort of lazy predator, and Optimus couldn't have been the only one who jerked when his arm snapped forward, jabbing a shock stick into Mirage's side.   
  
His cry of pain echoed through the arena as he tore away from Ricochet's mouth, energon dribbling from his lip. Ricochet must have bitten him.   
  
“Interesting,” Megatron murmured as Que circled to Mirage's other side and jabbed him again. Mirage convulsed, his hands forming fists in Broadblast's grip.   
  
Ricochet stepped back, a grin on his face. His glossa swept over his lips, cleaning them of Mirage's energon.   
  
Que jabbed Mirage twice more, each time the shock stick slipping through Mirage's seams and into his substructure. Even from a distance, Optimus could see the spurts of charge emerging and the smoke rising in its wake. Que must have had it on its highest setting.   
  
Que cackled, flipping the shock stick around in his fingers before he danced back, letting Ricochet take his place. Dark hands dragged down Mirage's frame, lingering on the scorched armor. He cupped Mirage's pelvic panel and said something, perhaps a demand for Mirage to open his panels.   
  
Mirage shook his helm, optics dimming. His pedes scraped at the floor.   
  
Ricochet laughed and turned his helm, looking all around the arena. He was putting on a show, Optimus realized.   
  
“Tear it off!” one of the watching Decepticons shouted.   
  
“Shock him again!” someone else demanded.   
  
“Hit him!”   
  
“Rip out his optics!”   
  
The crowd built up a roar of encouragement, the dam broken as several more voyeurs started calling out suggestions.   
  
Ricochet slid his visor back toward Mirage. He shrugged and within moments, Mirage was gasping out loud as his panel was removed and tossed into the crowd.   
  
“He certainly knows how to entertain,” Megatron commented as a group of smaller Cons in the front row squabbled over the noble's interface panel.   
  
Ricochet held out a hand, snapping his fingers and Que bounced up to him, handing over another interfacing toy/torture device. The one he'd been carrying earlier.   
  
Ricochet took it, examined it, and then held it up to the crowd, producing a near-deafening roar of approval. He grinned and turned his attention back to Mirage, poking one end of the toy against Mirage's lips.   
  
The noble grimaced, turning his helm away, but Ricochet gripped his jaw and turned it back. He pressed harder at Mirage's lips and forced the toy within, jabbing it in and out of Mirage's mouth. As he did so, Broadblast hiked Mirage a little higher. Within range, Optimus realized, of the shuttle's spike, which jutted at the apex of his legs, as thick as Mirage's forearm.   
  
One of Reflector's units must have zoomed in on the sight because one of the large screens lit up with the image of the impossibly large spike nestled at the rim of Mirage's valve, noticeably too large. The barest minimum of lubricant glistened around Mirage's valve, not nearly enough to ease the way of such a spike.   
  
The lead drew up short, putting pressure on Optimus' intake. He hadn't even realized he'd shuffled forward until it caught at him. Instinct, he realized. An attempt to save Mirage. A failed attempt.   
  
Megatron chuckled and flicked his fingers at the lead, vibrations traveling down the length of it and tickling Optimus' intake.   
  
“Powerless as ever, Optimus,” he drawled.   
  
Optimus shot him a glare before a tap to his helm reminded him to face forward again.   
  
Que snuck in, shock stick ablaze, and he shoved it at Mirage's spike array, charge crackling loudly. Mirage's muffled scream was barely audible over the sound of Que's laughter.   
  
Broadblast's spike nudged harder at Mirage's valve. The close-up showed the resistance of Mirage's rim in detail, the parting of the plush lining and the recessed anterior node, not even lit with pleasure. Mirage's thighs were trembling, and even across the arena, Optimus could hear the distressed idle of his engine.   
  
Optimus tensed, his tank churning. He realized that Megatron was right to chain him. Frag the consequences, he would have leapt into that ring and done everything he could.   
  
A siren split the air.   
  
Optimus jolted.   
  
A silence fell through the arena, save for a subvocal murmur. Behind him, Megatron went still. Even the Decepticons paused, their helms tilted toward the sky.   
  
Optimus felt it then, a low rumble in the ground. The siren grew louder, more piercing.   
  
Megatron shot to his pedes. “Starscream, report!” he snarled into his comm, taking hold of Optimus' lead and pulling it, yanking Optimus to his side.   
  
He turned to the south and Optimus followed his gaze. A thin stream of smoke rose into the sky, dark gray. As he watched, it grew thicker, became plumes. It was coming from the direction of the space bridge.   
  
Optimus' optics widened.   
  
The arena erupted into chaos. Decepticons scattered, pouring from the stands and shooting into the air, perhaps reacting to some sort of internal signal or previously delineated protocol. Megatron vibrated with tension, his anger rippling outward. He no longer spoke aloud, internally berating whoever was on the opposite side of the comm.   
  
Even the Decepticons in the arena had departed, leaving Mirage in the hands of the servant drones who had deposited him earlier. They gathered him up, meeping to each other, perhaps intending to return him to Shockwave.   
  
“Get me answers, Starscream,” Megatron hissed and the warning in his vocals sent shivers down Optimus' backstrut. “Or so help me it'll be you in the arena next.”  
  
Optimus couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but he imagined it wasn't pleasant.   
  
Megatron rounded on him, his eyes crimson with fury.   
  
“Your spy just blew up my space bridge, Optimus,” Megatron snarled and Optimus unconsciously backed away, not that there was anywhere he could go. “He cut off our only means of contacting Earth and our quickest means to acquire energon.”   
  
Optimus worked his jaw. “You act as though I'm to blame. There's nothing I can do about that.”   
  
“It is your fault. It is always your fault. Everything can be traced back to you.” Megatron snatched at the leash, closing the distance between them.   
  
Optimus knew that glint. That was the glint of intent to cause harm. He internally braced himself.   
  
“It's not my fault your Decepticons are incompetent. That they can't find one measly little Autobot,” Optimus retorted. “After all, weren't you the one who told me we were weak and helpless?”   
  
He tripped on his own pedes as Megatron jerked him forward again. Optimus stumbled, dropping to hands and knees. He opted to stay there. Subservience tended to please Megatron, even if it put him in range of Megatron's pedes.   
  
“Where is he?” Megatron demanded and his pede crashed down on Optimus' back, shoving him to the ground.   
  
Optimus heard a snap and hissed air as pain blossomed in his right hand. Three fingers, crunched beneath his own weight. His backstrut creaked. Megatron bore down on him and Optimus' vents struggled to spin under the pressure.   
  
“Tell me where I can find him!”  
  
“I don't know!” Optimus shouted. His free hand scraped at the ground. The empty socket of his windshield bent inward, scraping at the armor over his spark chamber.   
  
Megatron pulled on the lead, forcing Optimus' helm up. He gasped for a ventilation, his fans clunk-clunking as Megatron's weight kept them from spinning entirely. Heat rose in his frame. His chassis creaked.   
  
“I will not have your little spy ruining everything I've done,” Megatron roared and he ground down.   
  
Optimus felt something in his chassis snap, felt the trickle of fluids. Energon or coolant or hydraulic fluid – he didn't know. Whatever it was, he surely needed it.   
  
“He's one mech,” Optimus gasped out. He forced himself to look up, to see the fury in Megatron's optics, but also, beneath it all – fear.   
  
If one lone Autobot could do this much to his empire, imagine what the rest were capable of. Megatron was slowly but surely losing his control.   
  
“Why are you so afraid?” Optimus asked and he knew, before he even spat the words, that it was the wrong thing to say.   
  
Megatron stomped on him.   
  
Something else snapped. His plating buckled. Optimus jerked, scrabbling to get his arms beneath him, to brace himself against Megatron's weight.   
  
And then it was gone, but only because Megatron shifted his balance. Optimus didn't see the pede coming, only felt the impact as slammed into his abdominal armor and sent him rolling. The lead jerked, kept him from going far, putting great pressure on his intake. The world spun gray.   
  
“I fear nothing!” Megatron bellowed.   
  
He kicked Optimus again, denting his side paneling inward. Pain blossomed, thick and heavy. Something shifted wetly within him. Megatron was going to kill him. There was no Soundwave to suggest caution this time. Soundwave was still licking wounds of his own.   
  
Optimus gasped, processor spinning. He was hot, too hot, spark spinning madly, fans clunking as they struggled to cycle.   
  
He had to get to his pedes, to stand up. If Megatron was going to beat him to death, Optimus wanted to die standing. Like a mech. Like a living being, and not the pet Megatron had made of him.   
  
Another kick and something rattled within his chassis. Optimus' internals rippled and he spat up fluid, a worrisome mix of semi-processed energon and coolant. He forced his hands beneath him, and then his knees. He shook his helm, but the dizziness remained. He couldn't stop the world from dancing.  
  
There was a rushing in his audials, a roaring, screaming sound and he didn't know if it was real or a result of the damage.   
  
His lead jerked. Optimus seized, scrabbling to his pedes as Megatron hauled him upright. Something in his intake squeezed and he gasped.   
  
His vision swam. Bleary, he could see Megatron's snarl, his optics gleaming with malice. His lips were moving but all Optimus could hear was that roaring, buzzing.   
  
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Then there was pain, stars in his optics.   
  
Then there was darkness.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Optimus woke to pain, a dull ache settling about his entire frame. He groaned, and even that hurt. He felt bruised inside and out and it took several tries for his optics and audials to online.   
  
He expected to find himself in the medbay, but instead, was surrounded by slate gray walls without decoration. No medical equipment was in sight. The room was empty, save for the berth beneath him, a recording device mounted on a tripod, and two tall lamps, pointed his direction.   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and tried to roll over. The rattle of chains pulled him up short. He tugged on his wrists, but they were bound above him with no give. He tried to move his legs but they, too, were shackled. Each ankle was cuffed to opposite ends of the berth, forcing his legs to spread. He could wriggle his frame, but little else.   
  
Optimus ran a quick systems scan. He'd been repaired, to an extent. Tilting his helm enabled him to see numerous patches of temporary plating and slapdash welds. Minor dents lingered. Heat gathered where larger dents had been pulled and left to self-repair. His internals ached, no doubt a result of hasty repairs to the broken lines.   
  
His energy levels were a paltry twenty-two percent. Worse than they had been since Optimus had his turn in the arena.   
  
He was not in the medbay. Nor was he anywhere in Megatron's quarters.   
  
There was a single window, but he could see nothing through it but the sky, gray and overcast, probably because of the smoke from the explosion. He couldn't hear anything either, save the low drone of an atmospheric regulator. The room smelled stale from disuse.   
  
He heard a hiss as a door opened, one he couldn't see. The berth shook, low rattles, the kind of tremors from a heavy frame stepping across the floor.   
  
Said heavy frame came into view. Optimus' spark dropped into his tanks. There were few mechs that would have filled him with dread. Overlord was most certainly one of them.   
  
“Good morning, Optimus,” Overlord purred.   
  
He circled the berth, which Optimus belatedly realized that not only was it not flush against the wall, it wasn't a true berth. It better resembled an examining platform, which explained the restraints. Medical-grade. Even were he at full strength, he would have been hard pressed to snap them.   
  
“Comfortable?”   
  
Optimus worked his intake. “I don't think Megatron--”  
  
“Megatron,” Overlord interrupted, “is the one who gave you to me.” He paused at the foot of the platform and rolled his shoulders in a shrug, spreading his hands. “He gave me, what your humans call, _carte blanche_.”   
  
Blank check, his processor supplied. Complete freedom to act.   
  
“That is,” Overload said as he leaned forward, hands bracing on the platform between Optimus' spread knees. “So long as I don't offline you.”  
  
Optimus' spark raced. “Why?”   
  
Overlord smirked and tapped his chin. “Because I'm more creative? Because he's busy? Because I asked? Who knows?” He tilted his helm toward the camera, which had an excellent view of them. “But don't worry, everyone on this planet gets to see how much fun we're going to have. Including Jazz.”   
  
So. They hadn't found Jazz yet. And they thought this would draw him out. Well, if it didn't work before, what made them think it would work now?  
  
“And you think that you can hurt me more than everyone else,” Optimus spat, his pedes giving a fruitless tug to the restraints.   
  
Overlord circled to the side of the berth, one large hand easily cupping the entire side of Optimus' helm. “I'm going to make you scream,” he purred. “I'm going to make you beg. I'm going to give you pain and pleasure until you can't tell the difference. I'm going to make you cry for Megatron to save you.”   
  
His thumb pressed to Optimus' lips, nothing gentle in the motion, hard enough to put pressure on his denta behind the soft dermal metal.   
  
Optimus' engine revved, vibrating the berth. He glared hard at Overlord, not that it did anything but make the super-soldier laugh. He drew back, releasing Optimus' lips, and turned the camera on.   
  
“Smile for your fans, Optimus,” Overlord drawled. “It's time to put on a show.”   
  
Optimus jerked at his bindings. “Don't you have anything better to do?” he snarled.   
  
“I'm sure I do. There are Autobots in need of capture after all.” Overlord returned to the foot of the berth and he felt underneath it. At once, the bottom half of the berth fractured, dropping down, leaving more than enough room for Overlord to stand between Optimus' spread thighs without having to climb onto the berth. “But torturing you? That's a pleasure in itself.”   
  
His hands landed on Optimus' knees and slid up his thighs, scraping across dented metal. Optimus tried to tilt his knees inward, but it did little good. Overlord's thumbs brushed his interface panel, pressing against both his spike and valve housing.   
  
“I'm going to have so much fun,” Overlord murmured with a sly grin Optimus' direction.   
  
He winked.   
  
And then he dug his fingers into Optimus' panel and yanked the covers off without even bothering to demand Optimus open them. Optimus' backstrut arched as he screamed, agony shrieking through his sensor net. His entire array throbbed, errors lighting up his HUD as if he didn't know.   
  
“Don't know why Megatron bothered with these,” Overlord muttered, tossing the covers over his shoulder. They hit the ground and clattered.   
  
Optimus collapsed against the platform, fans whirring madly. “Wh-why?” he managed, vocals laced with static.  
  
“They were in my way.” Overlord shrugged and peered at his components, prodding at the false spike visible within Optimus' valve.   
  
He wriggled it around a bit before the tip of a finger poked in at Optimus' spike.   
  
“Extend it,” he demanded.   
  
Optimus shook his helm. There was too much pain. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. Self-preservation protocols denied his requests.   
  
Overlord's optics narrowed. His hand formed a fist.   
  
Optimus gasped. “I can't--”   
  
His denial turned into a howl as Overlord's fist slammed into his pelvic array, denting the metal inward around his spike housing. Damage reports flooded his HUD and Optimus could only gasp as another punch to his array left him reeling. Darkness poked around the edges of his visual feed.   
  
“Better,” Overlord said.   
  
Optimus couldn't feel what he was doing and forced his optics to reboot. Dizzily, he looked down to see that Overlord had prised his fingers into Optimus' spike housing and manually extended his spike. It ached, there was no pleasure in it, and his half-pressurized unit looked tiny in Overlord's grasp.   
  
“Practically useless, isn't it?” Overlord asked as he curled his fingers around Optimus' spike. He gave it a few loose tugs, his lips curved in a smirk.   
  
Optimus groaned. He couldn't produce words, only static. Pain left him gasping for a ventilation. His entire frame was rigid, aching inside and out. There were so many bright red warnings that he couldn't dismiss them all.   
  
“Do you even get to use it?” Overlord asked. He tightened his grip on Optimus' spike, firm enough that it would have been pleasant, had Optimus' array not been a thing of pain.   
  
“Can't imagine Megatron likes spike,” Overlord continued, content to carry on a conversation with himself. “What a shame.”   
  
Overlord's fingers clenched.   
  
Optimus bowed inward, to the limit of his chains, the _crump_ of delicate metal barely audible over the sound of Overlord chuckling. The pain left him gasping once again. Left his ventilations stalled. It was indescribable.   
  
“I can't kill you,” Overlord breathed as he released Optimus' spike, his fingers dragging along the length of Optimus' array. “But I can hurt you until you wish you were dead.”   
  
Optimus' vocalizer rebooted, freeing the cry trapped in his intake. He was shaking and he couldn't seem to stop, his entire array one throbbing mass of agony. He offlined his optics, trying to stop his tanks from roiling.   
  
“It's nothing personal,” Overlord added.   
  
There was a faint pressure on Optimus' array, registered in the spaces between notices of damage and spikes of pain.   
  
“Here,” Overlord said. “Hold this for me.”   
  
Optimus' optics onlined in time to see the false spike being shoved against his lips, a fierce pressure that bloomed into pain as it was forced into his mouth and shoved deep. The tip of it pressed against the back of his intake. He tasted lubricant and transfluid, both bitter on his glossa. His tanks rolled.   
  
Optimus turned his helm, lips and jaw working to free the toy from his mouth, but Overlord's hand clamped over his lips, keeping it in place. Two fingers then shoved into Optimus' valve, curling inward and raking against his internal sensors.   
  
Optmius' spinal strut arched, too much lingering pain removing all traces of pleasure. Overlord wasn't Megatron. He didn't bother to try and make Optimus enjoy it. To add humiliation to everything else. Overlord only wanted to see Optimus in pain. Optimus tugged again at his chains, to no avail. His calipers struggled just as weakly.   
  
Overlord loomed over him, optics gleaming. His fingers roughly fragged Optimus' valve, his ventilations pouring down on Optimus, searing hot.   
  
“Maybe he'll let me keep you,” Overlord said. The heel of his palm shoved the false spike deeper, bruising Optimus' intake.   
  
He quickly shunted his oral ventilations away.   
  
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”   
  
His fingers curled. The tips scraped the inside of Optimus' valve, tearing into the delicate mesh. He felt fluid seep free and Optimus knew it wasn't all lubricant.   
  
He fixed Overlord with a glare, his vocalizer producing angered noises but little else.   
  
“Sorry,” Overlord said. “But I just can't hear you. You'll have to speak up.”   
  
Two more fingers joined the assault, all four of them jabbing gracelessly into Optimus' valve. He grunted, pain stabbing through him. Fire raked through his valve. His crushed spike ached, a dull throb, and combined, the two left his entire array ablaze with pain.   
  
Optimus shook, fatigue clawing at him. His energy levels dipped further. His engine revved weakly.   
  
“Come on, Optimus,” Overlord cajoled, leaning down to nip at Optimus' spike. “Can't you participate just a little?”   
  
Optimus growled an angry sound. His jaw ached, as did his intake.   
  
Four fingers, easily the width of Megatron's spike alone, scraped along the inside of his valve, twisting and shoving. Overlord lay his thumb over Optimus' exterior node and applied pressure, grinding it down.   
  
Optimus whined, frame instinctively curving inward and immediately stopped by the chains. It hurt, by Primus, it hurt. His vents wheezed. He never thought he'd missed the days of Megatron's forced pleasure.   
  
Overlord jerked his fingers free. Lubricant and other fluids splattered to the berth beneath Optimus.  
  
The supersoldier released his hold on Optimus' mouth, both hands grasping Optimus' hips. He groaned weakly and tried to work the spike free of his mouth, intake reporting error after pained error.   
  
He heard the click of an interface panel opening, didn't have to look to know that Overlord had released his spike. He felt the blunt pressure of it against his valve, pushing his folds, prodding against his external node. He remembered this spike, the pain of it. The only worse torture had been the triple-changer fist, tearing through his valve.   
  
Optimus turned his helm, trying to rub his mouth against his inner arm. He hoped to snag it on an armor plate, pull the damn toy free.   
  
Overlord's heated frame notched itself between his thighs.   
  
“This is only round one,” he huffed, his field rising and falling over Optimus, thick with triumph. Lust was only an afterthought.   
  
It wasn't about the pleasure. It never was.   
  
His spike prodded at Optimus' valve, as though taunting Optimus with the intent to take him, making him wait in agony.   
  
Just get it over with! He wanted to scream. He hated this tension, this not-anticipation, but this waiting.   
  
Get it over with so they could get to the part where Overlord left him alone and Optimus could curl into a little ball and shake with silent agony.   
  
He gnawed at the toy. His glossa pushed at it. He wanted it out.   
  
The berth shook. No, not just the berth. The entire room. The camera stand wobbled. The lights flickered.   
  
Overlord's spike paused, the head of it pressed to Optimus' opening.   
  
The room shook again. In the distance, Optimus thought he heard something. A dull whump, like an explosion. And then, the shrill sound of alarms. The all call to battle.   
  
Overlord cursed and drew back, dropping Optimus' hips. “Just when I was getting to the good part,” he grumbled, and stormed over to the camera, flicking it off.   
  
“Your spy is causing trouble again,” he said as he returned, patting Optimus' valve. With great effort, Overlord stored his spike away. “But I'll be back. Don't miss me too much.”   
  
And then he was gone. Optimus heard the door open and shut behind him, the click-beep of it locking.   
  
_Primus_.   
  
He ex-vented and allowed himself a moment to sag on the berth. His array ached. Every brush of cooler air over his components made him shiver.   
  
He scraped his face against his arm, again and again, glossa working hard until finally, he managed to get the spike free. He spat it out, heard it hit the floor with a dull thunk and roll away. His jaw ached.   
  
Optimus drew in several slow vents. The room shuddered again and one of the lights tipped over, hitting the ground with a crash. The noises were getting closer.   
  
The door opened. Optimus craned his neck, only getting a glimpse of the mech who entered. Medium-build, red and gray armor with touches of black, and an orange visor. Wait. He knew this mech.   
  
Why on Cybertron was Ricochet here?  
  
The orange visor turned toward Optimus and darkened. “Oh, OP,” Ricochet breathed, his vocals audibly different than before. He approached the platform cautiously, like one might a cornered Sharkticon. “What has he done to you?”   
  
“What... are you... doing here?” Optimus rasped, his intake aching.   
  
Ricochet held up his hands, just within field range. His visor slid up, revealing the blue of his optics beneath – specialized optics, Optimus remembered. Designed to see in spectrums that few other mechs could. But it came with a drawback, mitigated by the requirement of wearing a visor.   
  
But... that was impossible.   
  
“Had to make some alliances I didn't want ta. Took a little longer than I wanted, too,” Ricochet admitted, and his field reached out, gently pressing against Optimus' in request. In offer.   
  
Familiar. Achingly so.   
  
“Sorry, 'm late, boss,” Ricochet – no, _Jazz_ – said.   
  
Optimus started to shake. His spark ached, a pain that wasn't so much physical as everything else on the spectrum.   
  
He offlined his optics and turned his helm away, shame eating away at him. He felt he should say something, but there were no words sufficient. He wanted to press his thighs together, hide the damage Overlord had left him with and a part of him wondered, what did it matter? Surely it was nothing Jazz hadn't already seen.   
  
Jazz, thank Primus, was nothing if not professional. He didn't comment on Optimus' lack of celebration.   
  
“I'm going to untie you, if that's okay,” Jazz said and when Optimus didn't immediately answer, Jazz prompted, “I'm gonna need an answer, boss. I don't want to touch you if you don't want me to.”  
  
Optimus managed to nod. His vents were stuttering and it took all his focus to keep them cycling properly.   
  
Cybertronians could not weep. Not in the same way as the humans. In that moment, Optimus felt that lack.   
  
“Okay. I'm going to start with your hands.”   
  
Jazz's field got closer. Optimus felt him near, felt the bare wisp of Jazz's ventilations, and heard the familiar, subvocal curse as Jazz fiddled with the restraints. Then, with a click, they opened and Optimus' wrists were freed. He was able to lower his arms, much to the relief of his aching shoulders.   
  
“Your pedes now, boss,” Jazz said.   
  
Within moments, Optimus' ankles were freed as well and he could finally draw his knees together. Though it caused a fresh wash of pain through his pelvic array. Dented plating struggled to shift.   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and forced his optics online. “Thank you,” he said quietly.   
  
Jazz returned to his side, his expression unreadable but a tension in his frame that Optimus well-recognized. Jazz was furious and doing his best not to show it. How often had Optimus seen this look and steered Jazz away from a path of retaliation? Away from a path that would have been too Decepticon-like in nature?  
  
How many of those times should he have just allowed it?   
  
“I'm sorry,” he said, again.   
  
The oddness of Jazz's vocal tones coming from a face so unfamiliar as Ricochet's would not leave Optimus be.   
  
“You did what you could,” Optimus said and he struggled to sit upright, his frame protesting every shift and adjustment. He needed a medic. He wasn't in danger of passing out from energon loss, but pain would be a close second. “If anyone is to blame, it is me.”  
  
“Frankly, I blame Megatron but whatever, boss bot. I know how your spark works.” Jazz shrugged.   
  
Optimus shook his helm, giving Jazz a despairing look. “Please, Jazz. I am no longer Prime. I am not your leader.”   
  
Jazz's field flexed against his, warm and encompassing. “I don't care what Buckethead did. It ain't the Matrix that made me follow ya. Now, can you stand?”   
  
“I can try.” He chose to ignore Jazz's denial for now.   
  
He scooted to the end of the platform, let his pedes touch the floor. Every part of him ached. His knees were unsteady.   
  
Optimus lingered, dizziness attacking his processor. His array ached, both energon and fluid leaking from his uncovered valve. His spike was limp against his crumpled plating and all of it was in full view. Jazz had seen both before, they were nothing new, but not like this. Not with shame painted so obviously over every inch of Optimus' plating.   
  
Lack of energon made his vision swim again. Optimus hesitated, gripping the edge of the berth. It felt as though someone had scraped his entire panel raw, scrubbing him with a bristle brush inside and out.   
  
“I don't know if I can, Jazz,” Optimus finally admitted. Too many error messages. Too much pain. He couldn't seem to bring himself to stand.   
  
Jazz's field rippled against his, warm with comfort. “That's fine. We can sit here nice and pretty until the world makes sense again, if you want. I've done my part.”   
  
“What about--”  
  
“Overlord? Nah, boss. Don't worry about him.” Jazz grinned, but it was razor sharp and nasty. “I took care 'o him.”   
  
Optimus gave Jazz a sharp look before he remembered it wasn't his place to chastise Jazz anymore. And maybe... maybe Overlord deserved it.   
  
Jazz held up his hands. “Calm down, OP. It was just a kill code. He ain't dead, much to my disappointment, just wiped. Sounders gave it to me.”   
  
“Soundwave?”   
  
“Yeah.” Jazz scratched at his chin, some of the tension bleeding from his frame. “Remember those allies I didn't like? He's one o' them. Starscream, too.”   
  
Optimus cycled his optics. Now there was a surprise. Not so much that Starscream would betray Megatron, that was a given, but that he would align with an Autobot. Especially since Starscream had appeared nothing but subservient lately.   
  
Optimus lifted a hand, touching his intake and the collar surrounding it. “And this?”   
  
“Can't do anythin' about that, sorry.” Jazz sighed. “Need a medic. Ratchet should be able to remove it, once we get him away from the Constructicons. Bee's on that even as we speak.”   
  
He absorbed that information with the tiniest bit of hope poking at his spark. Galvanized, Optimus abruptly thrust himself upright, ignoring the shooting stabs of pain. If freedom was to be had, he didn't want to wait for it in Overlord's room, smelling far too much of lubricant and transfluid and pain.   
  
Almost immediately, Optimus swayed and it took a moment of bracing himself to keep from crumpling to the floor. Jazz lifted his hands as though he wanted to help, but was torn between touching Optimus and knowing he probably wanted nothing to do with contact.   
  
“Whoa, seriously, Optimus. We can wait.”   
  
He shook his helm. “I do not want to wait, Jazz. I do not want to be here.”   
  
Optimus took one step, and then a second when his knees didn't immediately fail on him. He heard a hard harsh grating noise, felt the scrape of crumpled armor, but the prospect of freedom, of walking without being on the end of a lead, was strengthening.   
  
“Nah, I get ya. But I also don't want ya to fall. That ain't gonna help.”   
  
Jazz hovered, near enough to touch but refraining from doing so. “I'm not big enough to catch ya either.”   
  
Optimus took another step, a little easier than the first two. He would walk out of here. He would see what his Autobots had done without him. He would witness their strength and perseverance with his own optics.   
  
“I promise you will not need to.”   
  
Optimus made it to the door, which had never closed behind Jazz, and inched into the hallway. It was deserted, as far as he could see. He still didn't recognize the building, though he suspected it was either the barracks or Shockwave's laboratory. There was a chill in the air that wasn't entirely the fault of the temperature.   
  
Another boom made the building shudder. Optimus tilted against the wall, ventilations running at full tilt as they struggled to cool him down. Each step was great effort.   
  
He heard a roar, somehow louder than all the other sounds. Optimus heard it, even from what must have been a large distance, and the very sound of it sent a shiver up his backstrut.   
  
“What in Primus' name is that?” he demanded.   
  
Jazz looked up at him and winked half his visor. “Grimlock.”   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n:And now everyone can breathe a sigh of relief because the rape, torture, despair and agony are all over. Oh, there's still the recovery and the angst and depression and all that, but the violent awfulness is gone. Well, except for flashbacks, but still! You can all breathe easy. For now. ;)
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus, Jazz, Ratchet, Starscream, Ultra Magnus, Grimlock, Wheeljack, Mirage, Rumble, Bumblebee  
> Referenced Pairings: Ratchet/Wheeljack, Mirage/Tracks, Rumble/Bumblebee  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings this chapter: referenced character death and rape, angst  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "The Scar," Broken Iris

It was over so quickly that by the time Optimus emerged from the back end of Shockwave's laboratory, there was nothing but clean up to be had. Which was good, because the moment he heard that Megatron was dead, that Grimlock had ripped out his spark chamber, Optimus' processor tripped into stasis lock and he crumpled into a heap, right then and there. His redlining energon levels might have had something to do with it, too.   
  
For the next several cycles, he was in and out of consciousness in a medbay. He heard snatches of conversation, picked up bits and pieces of the goings on.   
  
One time, he awoke to the knowledge that, at the moment, Ultra Magnus and Grimlock and Starscream were in charge. It was almost enough to give him spark palpitations until a dented but very much alive Ratchet shuffled over to give him another sedative and Optimus sunk back into blissful sedation.   
  
He didn't dream. He was glad for it.   
  
The next time Optimus onlined, it was to the same ceiling as before. He was in a medbay, but a quick check of his extremities proved that he was no longer shackled at any of his joints and a touch to his intake proved that the collar was gone. Another systems scan showed him at nearly full health with a fully functional communications system and transformation cog.   
  
Megatron must have kept it as a souvenir rather than destroy it.   
  
He wasn't alone. Jazz was recharging in the chair next to him, half slumped over Optimus' berth. He'd changed his paint and his armor so that he no longer resembled Ricochet and the sight of him sent an ache of guilt through Optimus.   
  
He was content to let Jazz recharge and let himself bask in the novel concept of freedom. Exhaustion still weighed heavily on his frame and he knew he only had a short time before recharge claimed him again.   
  
But then Jazz woke, probably sensing the shift in his resting patterns, and offered Optimus a tired grin. He patted Optimus' hand and Optimus did his best not to flinch. He wasn't much a fan of physical contact and hated himself for being relieved when Jazz tucked his hands back in his lap and didn't try again.   
  
Optimus wasn't really up for conversation, but Jazz didn't seem to mind. He was content to fill in the silence with babble and Optimus was content to listen. He would fall back into recharge eventually, but that was okay.   
  
They'd won, Jazz said. It was the first thing he said actually, not that there was much cheer in his vocals. They'd lost too much to really call it a victory. But, Jazz pointed out, it was better than dying or remaining a slave.   
  
Megatron was dead, well and truly dead. They'd melted his frame down because there was no one desperate enough to use him for spare parts. Others had died with him, those that refused to surrender or were damaged in the explosions Trailbreaker and Smokescreen had so carefully put into place.   
  
Optimus listened to the names and felt dull. Dirge and Ramjet. Wildrider and Dead End. Astrotrain. Roller Force and Ground Hog. Other names he didn't recognize. Names he couldn't match to faces. A lot of grunts.   
  
Starscream had assumed command of the Decepticons with Soundwave assisting him. Anyone who didn't want to listen to him had been thrown into the Decepticon brig. Jazz was vague as to their future fate, and a part of Optimus didn't want to know. After all, it wasn't his place to say anything anymore.   
  
There was also rumor that Grimlock was vying for leadership of the Decepticons, claiming it as his right for killing Megatron. Few were disputing him. Even, strangely, Starscream. Nothing had come of the rumor yet. Jazz was keeping an optic on it.   
  
Several Decepticons were allowed to walk free. Optimus was surprised to hear that the Combaticons were among them. They'd been the ones who owned Bluestreak, though they'd taken care of him and never used him like the others. They'd protected Bluestreak.   
  
“They were pretty much slaves themselves,” Jazz said with a shrug. “Made 'em lose the taste for it. All they wanted was for that code to be stripped out of 'em. Not sure if they're going to stay with Starscream though.”   
  
Optimus couldn't blame them. Starscream was not Megatron, but that did not make him the better choice by default. Starscream might have been the one to free them from Shockwave's spark prison, but only so he could make use of their talents. Then, his failure proceeded to add another punishment onto what was already a disorientating experience.   
  
Jazz kept telling him not to worry, too. That they had everything under control. That Ratchet had booted the Constructicons into the Decepticon brig and stripped the medbay of useful instruments, fixed up First Aid, and with Wheeljack's help, the three of them had been getting everybody back into working order.   
  
He worried, Jazz admitted, about Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Whatever Shockwave had done to them had left them shadows of their formal selves. They couldn't be separated from each other anymore. Sunstreaker had nightmares and Sideswipe had nearly ripped out Jazz's throat when Jazz had freed them.   
  
None of those imprisoned by the Decepticons had left the medbay yet. Well, except for Bluestreak. Bumblebee had never been in Decepticons hands, though he'd been treated for malnutrition and general ill maintenance.   
  
And did Optimus know that Bumblebee and Rumble were old lovers? No? Well, he knew now. It was both adorable and odd, but Jazz wasn't going to get in the middle of it. Every little alliance counted.   
  
Things were tense, Jazz admitted. Starscream didn't know the meaning of tact, and Grimlock knew, but didn't bother with it. Jazz had never wanted to be this kind of leader, but everyone was looking to him for answers. And Ultra Magnus was twitchy, his team of Autobots having trouble meshing with Optimus' Autobots.   
  
“You're not mine anymore,” Optimus tried to protest.   
  
Jazz just popped an orbital ridge at him. “We'll talk about that later, boss,” he said.   
  
The fatigue clawed at Optimus again. He felt his optical shutters drooping. He was exhausted, strut-deep, but it was a welcome fatigue. It was a healing fatigue. He apologized for drifting off, but Jazz just patted the berth in lieu of patting him.   
  
“Recharge, OP,” he said with a tight smile. “Trust me. I'll watch over ya. Won't nothin' happen while I’m here. Promise.”  
  
Jazz's field nudged gently against his, and it was so welcome, so familiar, that Optimus fell into recharge.   
  
The next time Optimus onlined, he felt more like himself. The fatigue was gone as was the sense of unreality and he wanted nothing more than to be out of the berth. There were things to do. He had a responsibility. He needed to know what he'd missed.   
  
He needed to know if the Autobots still trusted him to lead them. If they even needed a leader. They weren't at war anymore. There was no more need for factions. Except Optimus wasn't so naïve as to think that the separation and badges had been abandoned. Not after what Megatron had done.   
  
He onlined his optics and glanced around the room. Jazz was no longer here, though that came as no surprise to Optimus. A quick check to his chronometer showed that he'd been out for several days. It would have been arrogant to expect Jazz to linger that long.   
  
He also had no more monitoring wires connected to his frame. He was, by all accounts, free to get up and go about his business. If only he could bring himself to swing his legs over the side of the berth.   
  
He didn't know what to expect when he walked out the doors. It was strangely intimidating and Optimus could not remember the last time he'd been so hesitant. It was disconcerting to be this anxious, and Optimus did not like it. Had Megatron broken him so thoroughly?  
  
The door opened and Optimus startled, his helm swinging toward it. The tension bled out of him, however, when the familiar red and white of his CMO eased into the room. Ratchet looked much better than the last time Optimus saw him. Gone were the shackles and the collar. He'd been repaired, the dents and scuffs and scrapes gone from his paint. He carried himself a bit taller as well.   
  
“I figured you'd be awake by now,” Ratchet said as he approached the berth, datapad in hand. He cast about for a seat and drew a backless stool, perching himself on it. “How are you feeling?”   
  
What a loaded question.   
  
Optimus hauled himself upright. There was a slight ache in his frame, but he recognized it as the heat and discomfort of healing. It would pass, he suspected, with movement. He needed to be up and about, no longer berthbound.   
  
As for how he felt, well, Optimus wasn't sure there was a simple answer to that question.   
  
“Repaired,” he answered. His gaze met Ratchet's. “You?”   
  
“The same,” Ratchet admitted. He fiddled with his datapad and rolled his shoulders. “You're onboard the Xantium right now. I didn't think you would appreciate waking in the Constructicon medbay.”   
  
“Nor would you enjoy working there.”   
  
Ratchet ex-vented audibly. “There is that.” A shadow filled his optics and Optimus knew it had to reflect in his own. “They're in the brig right now, but if Starscream has his way, it won't be for long. The fragger's right. We do need them.” He sounded bitter and Optimus couldn't blame him.   
  
“There are very few of us left,” Optimus murmured. “Starscream would be correct. It is an unfortunate necessity.”   
  
“Pah. I didn't need you to tell me that.” Ratchet rolled his optics before he focused on Optimus again, tilting his helm. “You're fully repaired, Optimus. It's up to you what to do next. Except for the Dinobots, no one's felt comfortable being so close to the Decepticons so we're all sharing space on the Xantium. It's crowded but...” Here he shrugged again, the distance returning to his optics. “There are worse things.”   
  
Indeed.   
  
Optimus nodded. That was when his tank choose to gurgle and he pressed a hand over it. His energy levels only read forty percent. Curious.   
  
Ratchet presented him a cube of energon, perhaps pulled from subspace. “Your tanks won't be able to handle full capacity for a while. Sip on this.”   
  
“Thank you.” Optimus peered at the energon, which appeared to be standard mid-grade. It gave off the sweet scent of it as well. “Where is Jazz?”  
  
“Ah.” The medic winced. “There was an incident. He had to leave to address it.” Ratchet's weight shifted, the stool creaking beneath him. “One of our Autobots executed a Decepticon.”   
  
Optimus blinked. “What?”   
  
Ratchet sighed and rose from his stool, rubbing a hand down his faceplate. “Sideswipe was redlining again. It was only after I managed to get him stabilized, that I noticed that Cliffjumper had left his berth. It wasn't until Jazz commed me that I knew where he'd gone. Straight to the brig. I don't even know where he got the blaster from. Or how he managed to get off the fragging berth.”   
  
“Who was it?”   
  
“I can't blame him, Optimus. None of us do. Primus knows that if I'd been damaged half as much as Cliff was when we found him, well, I wouldn't hesitate to shoot who did that to me either.” Ratchet's entire frame was tense. “No one can tell me Blitzwing didn't deserve what he got.”   
  
Optimus' optics widened. His ventilations caught.   
  
Oh, yes. He remembered Blitzwing.  
  
But when had Cliffjumper been taken? Megatron had never announced this! He'd never taunted Optimus with the knowledge. He'd never made a show out of finding and capturing Cliffjumper. Optimus hadn't even known Cliffjumper was alive!  
  
Optimus shuddered and bowed his helm. As much as he wished to think otherwise, a part of him agreed with Ratchet. Was a mech who thought it was okay to do that to another even capable of being redeemed? But then, were the Constructicons any better?   
  
And Cliffjumper! He was smaller even than Optimus. How had the triple-changers not killed him? Optimus dreaded to think of it.   
  
He worked his intake. “Where is Cliffjumper now?”   
  
“Here. In Isolation. Frankly, he shouldn't have been able to get off the berth.” Ratchet signed. “The Decepticons are in an uproar, both those in the brig and those who agreed to Starscream's leadership. Unfortunately, they have a point.”   
  
Optimus pressed his lips together and abruptly forced himself to his pedes. His legs held his weight, though his knees wobbled. The sharp motion made his processor spin but a quickly cycled ventilation forced everything back into equilibrium.   
  
Ratchet whirled toward him. “What are you doing?”   
  
“I have responsibilities. I cannot continue to hide in this medbay.” Optimus offered Ratchet a smile and only then did he realize the medic couldn't see it because he had his blast mask. Ratchet had returned that to him as well.   
  
Optimus touched it with his fingers, the better to reassure himself that it existed. He had a defense against the world again.   
  
“Optimus, you're in no state of mind to be dealing with those idiots out there,” Ratchet said, shaking his helm. “If it weren’t for the fact that so many of us were in terrible condition, I'd be holed up on a berth, too!”   
  
Optimus inclined his helm, allowing his field to extend to Ratchet, who was looking more frazzled by the minute. “I am more than capable of a little conversation if you are capable of tending to our needs, Ratchet. I will be fine.”   
  
Ratchet twitched, his field rippling with an irritation that was so familiar to Optimus, it was a comfort. It was like being in the Ark's medbay all over again, Ratchet's hands planted on his hips as he berated one of the Autobots for behaving against medical advice. Ratchet glared, pinning Optimus down with the force of it, but then it was gone in the next second, replaced by resignation.   
  
“Fine,” Ratchet said and he stomped to the door. It opened ahead of him and he gestured to the hallway. “Have at it. They're meeting in the command room. Two doors down.”   
  
“Thank you.” Optimus paused next to his medic, reading the unease and discomfort in Ratchet's field. He thought he ought to offer words, perhaps comfort, but he did not know if any of it would be welcome.   
  
“Please think also of yourself,” Optimus said instead and he slipped past Ratchet into the hallway.   
  
The medic snorted behind him. “Same to you, boss.” There was, in his words, a hint of the Ratchet Optimus remembered so well. Perhaps the Decepticons hadn't completely destroyed them.   
  
Optimus followed Ratchet's directions down the deserted hallway. He passed two doors, neither of which were labeled, until he found the one that was. The door had to be thick, but even so, he could hear raised voices, though the words were indistinguishable. He tapped at the panel, and it opened to him without requiring a code.   
  
As it slid open, Optimus was bombarded with noise.   
  
“--unacceptable!” Starscream's distinctive vocal tones snapped. “I don't care what your justifications are.”   
  
“I need only look into the medbay to see justification,” Ultra Magnus retorted, his plating ruffled with offense.   
  
The room was full to the brim with energy fields, almost suffocating. Optimus had to steel himself before he stepped inside.   
  
“And we should all suffer for the mistakes of those too stupid not to listen to Megatron?” Starscream snarled. His hands slammed onto the table. “By that argument, there are none of us innocent. We've all been party to the destruction of Cybertron and the death of millions. None of us are blameless.”   
  
“We are not talking about the war,” Ultra Magnus stated, his optics narrowing. “We are talking about the gross mistreatment of prisoners, a treatment that defied both Cybertronian law and galactic law. We are legally allowed to seek redress in whatever manner we see fit.”   
  
Starscream's wings went rigid, snapping upward. “Execution is not acceptable!” It was near a shriek.   
  
“Allow me Grimlock solitude with Shockwave and see what me Grimlock finds acceptable,” Grimlock growled, his visor darkening with threat.   
  
Primus. Clearly, Optimus had arrived just in time. He cycled his vocalizer and revved his engine, flaring the tattered remnants of his field to capture their attention. Sharp and cutting, none of them could ignore it.   
  
Three helms swung his direction, though none of them were mollified.   
  
“Optimus Prime, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, jerking to his pedes. “I apologize. I did not realize you were cleared from the medbay.”   
  
Starscream barked a laugh. “Because he's not. Ratchet told me he won't be cleared for another few days.”   
  
“Judging by the argument I witnessed, I cannot afford to stay in the berth that long,” Optimus said coolly. He stared at Starscream long enough for the Seeker to ruffle his plating and subside. “I may not be Prime, but I still have a responsibility. I am here to offer my opinion as well.”   
  
“Great. Just what I need. Another Autobot.” Starscream sneered and threw himself back into his chair, arms folded over his chest.   
  
Grimlock growled. “Me Grimlock not Autobot.” His armor rustled and only then did Optimus notice that the Autobot badges were gone from Grimlock's plating.   
  
He couldn't blame Grimlock, he supposed. The Autobots had left him and his team behind on Earth. Grimlock probably blamed Optimus for what happened as well. Still, Optimus made a mental note to speak with Grimlock later, preferably when they could have some privacy.   
  
“Oh, my mistake.” Starscream's vocals were a purr, but there was threat beneath him. “I must have been confused considering you spent the entirety of the war shooting fire at my aft.”   
  
“I trust you are well, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, perhaps in a desperate bid to shift the conversation back to something more appropriate.   
  
Optimus cast him a thin, grateful smile. “Well enough.” There was one empty seat and he lowered himself into it. “I understand that there was an incident? And I gather that we are unable to come to an accord regarding how to handle it?”   
  
Starscream's optics narrowed. “As I've stated repeatedly, yes, there is a certain portion of the Decepticons who treated the Autobots poorly. Yes, I understand that there is nothing you'd like more than to line them up and shoot out their sparks. But no, I'm not going to allow it. Those mechs are mine. I will decide what to do with them.”   
  
“They committed crimes against Autobots,” Ultra Magnus said, sinking back into his chair. “Therefore they should be tried in an Autobot court.”   
  
“An unfair court, of course.” Starscream snorted. His field buzzed with irritation. “My answer is still 'no'.”   
  
“All me Grimlock want is Shockwave.” Grimlock's field aggressively pulsed through the room. “Me Grimlock don't care about the rest.”   
  
Optimus drummed his fingers on the table, trying not to wince. He needed to steer this into civil territory before it devolved back into war. “Have we signed a truce?”   
  
Starscream barked a laugh.   
  
Ultra Magnus sighed. “There is some... disagreement as to who is legally and legitimately allowed to sign a treaty.” He gestured toward Starscream. “He maintains he is leader of the Decepticons while Grimlock claims it as his right for terminating Megatron and surprisingly, several Decepticons back him.”   
  
It made sense. The Deceptions were highly hierarchical and valued strength over anything else. Given the number of times Starscream had tried and failed to lead a mutiny, it was not a stretch to guess that the surviving Decepticons might choose to follow a leader who had actually succeeded on the first try. There were few Cybertronians in the war who did not recognize Grimlock for the danger he was.   
  
“And your Prime no longer has the Matrix,” Starscream snapped, his field reeking of offense. “Which means he's not a Prime. He has no authority.”   
  
“By that argument, there is no leader of the Autobots,” Ultra Magnus said and his field spiked as his engine thrummed slowly. His hand formed a fist on the table.   
  
Starscream's lips pulled into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Precisely.”  
  
Optimus inclined his helm. “I will not deny that I do not carry the Matrix. Or that it was destroyed, but to argue that the Autobots are leader-less would be incorrect. We do not need a Prime to guide us.” He gestured toward Ultra Magnus. “By order of ascension, in my absence, Ultra Magnus is commander.” Not, as many would have believed, Prowl. Though Prowl would have temporarily taken command had Ultra Magnus been out of contact.   
  
Ultra Magnus shook his helm, his field retreating from the room so fast Optimus reeled. “No, sir. I am willing to stand in temporarily, but you are my leader, Matrix or not. I cannot think of a single Autobot who will argue otherwise.”   
  
Starscream rolled his optics. “What you want doesn't matter. We're talking legalities here. Do you want a truce that is legitimate or one that can be questioned by any Cybertronian who returns? There are the Neutrals to consider.”   
  
Optimus blinked. “What Neutrals?”  
  
Ultra Magnus sighed. Grimlock growled. Even Starscream looked irritated. This, it seemed, was something they all agreed on.   
  
“Their ship touched down yesterday,” Ultra Magnus explained. He rubbed his forehelm, suddenly looking exhausted. “It was staffed by a half-dozen Neutrals and their leader, a mech by the name of Metalhawk, intends to stake a claim of Cybertron.”   
  
“It's preposterous,” Starscream spat, his wings twitching. He unfolded his arms and leaned over the table, crimson optics blazing. “Both Autobots and Decepticons outnumber them, separately and together for now. But if more come? We're all fragged.”  
  
“Then why are you fighting the treaty?” Optimus asked.   
  
“I'm not!” Starscream growled and there was a click-click as his thrusters spun up angrily. “But I'm not going to be trapped by an invalid treaty either. And I'm not going to get the short end of the stick.”   
  
Optimus' helm started to ache.   
  
“You Starscream stubborn,” Grimlock said. He waved a clawed hand at the Seeker. “Why not you Starscream just say what you want?”   
  
Starscream snorted. “Yeah. Cause it's that simple.”   
  
“Actually, I have to agree with Grimlock.” Optimus leaned back in his chair and cycled a ventilation. He suddenly understood why Ratchet hadn't wanted to let him free of the medbay. This was more exhausting than battle. “What do you want, Starscream? What means of leadership would be acceptable?”  
  
Starscream stared at him as though he'd just walked into the room with cosmic rust or something equally implausible. Had no one ever asked him what he wanted before?   
  
Starscream leaned back on his chair. “Give me a legitimate means of appointing an Autobot leader, one that can be backed up with tradition or history or credible proof, and I'll accept whoever you want to sit in front of me.”   
  
Optimus inclined his helm. “Thank you, Starscream. And after, you will consent to discussing the treaty?”   
  
“If,” Starscream bit out, “I have resolved the leadership of my own faction.”   
  
One helmache traded for another.   
  
“There is precedent,” Ultra Magnus began slowly, “that a popular vote can serve as a stand in to select a Prime-elect. Will that suffice temporarily until a new government charter can be written?”   
  
Starscream waved a hand of dismissal. “Whatever. So long as a Neutral isn't screaming about it, I don't care. Just make it legit.”   
  
Well, there was one problem handled. Optimus had the feeling there were going to be a dozen more on the table.   
  
They all had a long road ahead of them.   
  


-INTERLUDE-

  
  
He'd thought getting Ratchet to recharge and refuel properly during the war was difficult. Wheeljack knew now that it was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.   
  
He could hardly blame Ratchet. Without suppressants, every night was unpleasant for Ratchet. Recharge became a torture rather than a balm. Wheeljack's presence was no quick fix, no soothing and immediate balm. If anything, sharing a berth made Ratchet even more uncomfortable.   
  
He never slept alone, Ratchet had admitted while unable to meet Wheeljack's optics, staring off into the distance, his hands wringing together. He always shared a berth with whosoever's turn it happened to be. Every Constructicon had their quirk.   
  
Hook, Ratchet whispered, was the worse.   
  
So most nights, Wheeljack let Ratchet have the berth to himself. He stayed nearby, often powering down on the floor just to be close. That way Ratchet could taste his field, could reach out for him if he wanted. Could know, in an instant, that he was safe and that it was Wheeljack beside him, not one of his Constructicon rapists.   
  
Wheeljack had learned, too, after the first time he'd pulled Ratchet into his arms, that he could no longer take such things for granted. He asked now. He held out a hand, offering it, like one might show their palm to an untamed turbofox. Sometimes, Ratchet accepted it. Sometimes, Ratchet gave him this bleak look, like it hurt him to turn away, to say no. To go off in a corner and shudder while Wheeljack could only turn away and _hate_.   
  
The Constructicons were still alive and in those moments, Wheeljack felt a keen understanding for Cliffjumper. A part of him wanted nothing more than to stride into the Constructicons' quarters and shoot every last one of them. Twice. One in the helm; one in the spark. And if that wouldn't work, he had a few explosives left over that should do the trick.   
  
The anger came, as it always did, vile and poisonous and Wheeljack let it roll through him. Let it fill his spark with rage.   
  
And then he ex-vented and let it out. His anger wouldn't help Ratchet.   
  
Wheeljack couldn't remember a time he felt so helpless. It had been bad enough, out there alone in Cybertron's ravaged landscape, not knowing where Ratchet was. They'd been separated in the crash, had lost contact due to the lack of a functioning communication system.   
  
All of the Autobots had scattered when their respective transports had crashed. Poor Omega Supreme, he'd never had a chance once the entire might of the Decepticon airforce cornered him and all the others.   
  
Wheeljack had looked for Ratchet. It had been his first priority. But there was so much chaos. Smoke and fire and spilled energon and people shouting and no one knew if Prime was alive or dead. No one knew what happened except a single realization.   
  
The humans had betrayed them.   
  
Wheeljack didn't think it was that simple. He suspected there was more than a little Decepticon treachery going on. But he didn't have time to think about it. He only had time to run and hide, to try and regroup and come up with a plan.   
  
He'd known Ratchet had survived the crash. His spark told him that much. But it couldn't tell him where Ratchet was. Wheeljack couldn't go back and look either because the Decepticons had poked through the wreckage and took what they could back to their new base. They'd left nothing to chance. They'd been smart.   
  
He hadn't seen Ratchet again until the broadcast, when Megatron had shown everyone within receiving range that he'd caught the Autobot Chief Medical Officer. Wheeljack had been filled with rage then, watching Megatron so casually assault his partner. His only relief had been when Megatron did not execute Ratchet as he had Ironhide and Inferno.   
  
So long as Ratchet was alive, there was hope.   
  
And now here they were. Ratchet was alive, but he was hurting in ways Wheeljack could not easily soothe. He did not know how to help Ratchet, and Ratchet wouldn't tell him.   
  
It was painful to watch Ratchet push himself. He should be berth-bound just like his patients! He had just as many aches and pains, rough welds and repaired joints and struts, and damaged interfacing equipment. He'd been chained and hobbled and bound as well.   
  
He pushed himself anyway. He was almost normal when he was yelling at Perceptor for disconnecting himself from the energon drip. When he berated Optimus for getting up to tend to business too soon, not that it did any good. The sound of his sharp chastisement was so welcome that Wheeljack ached when he heard it.   
  
Still Ratchet paid no attention to his own health.   
  
He was determined to repair everyone else first. Maybe as a distraction. Maybe as proof that he still could. Maybe he thought fixing them would fix himself. Wheeljack didn't know.   
  
He didn't know this Ratchet anymore. This Ratchet was a stranger to him. A stranger he loved.   
  
“Jack?”   
  
“Hm?” He looked up from the transformation cog he was trying to repair. It was Sideswipe's. Shockwave had mangled it so badly Ratchet could not yet return it to Sideswipe's frame. They both despaired it would ever function again, but Wheeljack was going to do his best to try.   
  
Ratchet looked at him, his face lined with fatigue, his optics dim from lack of charge. “You can go on to recharge,” he said. “You need it.”   
  
_So do you_.   
  
Wheeljack bit his glossa. “I'm okay,” he said. “I want to try and finish this first. But thanks for noticing.”   
  
Ratchet offered him a tired smile. He tapped his fingers on the door frame and turned around, but not before Wheeljack noticed his knee wobble.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
“Yeah?” Another wobble as Ratchet half-turned toward him.   
  
Wheeljack's spark ached. “You know I love you, right?” He so rarely said it Before. Now he regretted that.  
  
“Never doubted it.” Ratchet's optics brightened by a degree. It wasn't much but considering his appearance as of late, it might as well have been a full-blown smile.   
  
Ratchet turned and left, and Wheeljack watched him go. He was going to do whatever it took to help Ratchet, however much or however little Ratchet needed from him.   
  
He'd been too late, too powerless to save Ratchet before. He wasn't going to make that same mistake again.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Mirage should not have been surprised, and yet, he was. The Decepticons had no sense of propriety, of right and wrong. Look at what they had done to their Autobot prisoners! Why would they have treated the dead with any dignity?  
  
He supposed he should be glad that Megatron hadn't ordered them all into a smelter. Though it was arguable which was worse. The smelter or... this.  
  
Mirage picked his way through the room carefully, the odor of death and decay so strong he'd disabled his olfactory sensors and closed his vents. His high-performance engine raced. He only had about ten minutes before he'd overheat.   
  
He searched.   
  
They'd been thrown in here, every last one of them. Every Autobot Megatron had killed, every one they'd located after the fact. Every frame that hadn't been smelted. Like gray trophies haphazardly tossed into a closet.   
  
This storage room was filled with death.   
  
Why had he kept them if not to allow them to keep their dignity? Mirage didn't know. Mirage didn't want to know.   
  
When things settled, when the treaty was done and the truce laid and they could begin rebuilding, Mirage hoped tending to this room would become one of the first items on the list. He would lobby for it if he had to. He would beg, on hands and knees, in front of Optimus. He doubted such drastic actions would be necessary, but he was prepared.   
  
No Autobot deserved this fate. None.   
  
He scanned the fallen Autobots again, taking note of every single one. Some were harder to recognize than others, but he would compile a list all the same. Jazz would appreciate it. He'd told Mirage not to come down here just yet but...   
  
He had to know.   
  
And then... there. His optics spotted a familiar shape. Mirage's ventilations hitched and he stepped over an outstretched arm toward the sprawled form. His spark convulsed as he sank to his knees, hands lifted but only skating within inches of the gray plating.   
  
He knew what Megatron had done. Soundwave informed Mirage that Megatron killed Tracks, but he'd still needed to see for himself.   
  
No helm. His chestplate was a shattered ruin. He'd only been recognizable by his spoiler, the beautiful faux-wings that had once been so ticklish.   
  
Mirage's intake tightened.   
  
They should have bonded. Perhaps if they had, Mirage would have known that Tracks was alive and vice versa. But Tracks had been on Skyfire, and it had always seemed that no one survived Skyfire's death. Mirage had believed that, to the depths of his spark.   
  
He should have looked. By Primus, he should have dug through the crash site, on hands and knees, to confirm.   
  
Maybe he would have found Tracks. Maybe even before Megatron. Maybe he could have prevented this.   
  
“I do not blame you, sweetspark,” Mirage murmured, finally settling for taking a gray hand into his. It was not damaged, but cold to the touch.   
  
First Shockwave, Mirage had been told. Shockwave had been fascinated by the triple-changer who wasn't. By the Autobot who could fly as a car, but not in root mode, and who was not a flight mech. And once he was bored, the Stunticons.   
  
Five of them. Five monsters. Three had lived through Jazz's assault on Decepticon headquarters and Ultra Magnus' assault on Earth. Three currently rotted away in the brig.   
  
Thanks to Cliffjumper, their guards were now more vigilant. Even if he wanted to, Mirage could not do them harm. Not without anyone knowing who to blame.   
  
Megatron was dead. It was not enough.   
  
It would never be enough.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Rumble felt like he should be a lot happier. His family had survived the war. So had Bumblebee. There was a chance for them to reconcile, a chance he hoped to take.   
  
But it was awkward, so very awkward, and there were all these lines between them now. Gulleys he couldn't yet cross.   
  
He had never been so aware of the Decepticon badge on his ventral plate. Or the fact that Bumblebee still carried his Autobot badge, as carefully restored on his chestplate as the rest of the paint on his frame.   
  
When he sat down next to Bee, he'd offered the yellow mech an energon cube. Bumblebee had taken it, but Rumble did not miss the fact he sniffed it and dipped a finger in to test it before he was willing to consume it. Rumble did not blame him, and he buried the hurt that it caused.   
  
They weren't anywhere near where they should be for trust, no matter what Soundwave had done to help procure Autobot freedom.   
  
“What are ya gonna do now?” Rumble asked, a desperate bid to break the silence.   
  
Bumblebee stared out over the Decepticon base. “Whatever Optimus wants us to do. Maybe leave. Maybe stay.” He sipped at his cube. “Who knows? With the Neutrals lurking about, we might not have a choice.”   
  
Rumble made a noncommittal noise. He followed Bumblebee's line of sight. The questioned lingered on the tip of his glossa. He thought to ask it, but instead, veered off into other territory.   
  
“Soundwave released us,” he said. “Or tried to anyway. But we like him. So I guess we're goin' to stick with 'im.”   
  
Other than Blaster, Bumblebee was probably the only one who knew what Rumble meant by that. The bond between carrier and cassette was a unique construct that few understood. It was complicated and necessary and important. But it still granted the cassette a certain form of autonomy.   
  
Or if Soundwave had his way, complete autonomy. But Rumble and Frenzy had discussed it and decided, for now, maybe better to stick with Soundwave. They couldn't run the risk of a Neutral carrier sniffing about and mucking up their dynamic.   
  
“And what's Soundwave going to do?”   
  
Rumble blinked. “What?”   
  
Bumblebee shifted to look at him, his optics unreadable. “Is this alliance with Starscream a one-time thing? Or is he going to be happy reporting to Starscream for the foreseeable future.”   
  
Rumble shivered, a cold draft whispering down his spinal strut. “One time thing. The boss still don't like Starscream, no matter how useful he was.” It was hard to keep the disgust from his tone.   
  
Starscream and Soundwave had united for the express purpose of freeing the Decepticons from Megatron's control. But there was no love lost between them. Soundwave backed Starscream because he would be a better leader than Megatron. But that wasn't saying much. If Soundwave had any interest in leadership, he would have bid for the position himself. But he didn't.   
  
He always preferred the shadows.   
  
“What's he going to do?”   
  
Rumble shrugged. “I don't know. But he's got a plan. Soundwave always has a plan.” Rumble wasn't too worried about it. He trusted Soundwave to know what was best for all of them.   
  
Even if allying with Megatron had turned out to be a huge mistake. In the beginning, however, they'd all agreed. Every last one of the them. The Decepticons were the better option. _Megatron_ was the better option.   
  
Things changed. Mechs changed. The war changed.   
  
“Must be nice,” Bumblebee murmured. He finished his energon, handing the empty cube back to Rumble who tucked it into his subspace for now.   
  
The Decepticons were sharing their energon stores with the Autobots. Rebuilding the space bridge was going to take some time. Luckily, Megatron had been something of a hoarder and they had plenty for now. Worse came to worse, and they could always send Blast Off to Earth, since Blitzwing and Astrotrain were both dead.   
  
Rumble fidgeted. There was no use in delaying. He might as well go for it.   
  
“What about us?” he asked.   
  
Bumblebee's gaze swung toward him with a startled look. “There is no 'us'.”   
  
“There used to be,” Rumble replied, daring to scoot closer, where he could detect the thinnest edges of Bumblebee's field. Not that there was much to sense. Jazz had taught him far too well, filling in the gaps in his education that Rumble and Frenzy had left behind.   
  
Bumblebee said nothing. His face betrayed nothing. Whatever was going on in his processor, Rumble didn't know. The time when he used to be able to guess what Bumblebee was thinking was a long time past.   
  
“I want there to be an 'us' again,” Rumble continued and he audibly cycled a ventilation. “All I wanna know is, if I tried, would you try, too? Or am I playing an unspooled tape here? You want I should walk away and never look back?”   
  
Bee's optics dimmed as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “There's a lot of history, Rumble.”   
  
It wasn't a 'no.' It wasn't him saying to get lost. It was a start.   
  
Rumble shrugged. “So we start over. Start fresh. Do whatever, I don't care. I just don't wanna lose ya again.”   
  
“And if Optimus decides we leave Cybertron and Soundwave decides to stay here? What then?”   
  
“I guess I'll have to make a choice.” Rumble reached for Bumblebee's hand and when the yellow mech didn't immediately pull back or decline, he took it. “And this time, I'll make sure it's the right one.”   
  
His thumb swept over Bumblebee's palm, feeling the smooth and fresh paint. Every bit of Bumblebee gleamed in the night cycle lighting.   
  
Bumblebee cycled a ventilation, his field briefly touching Rumble's and tasting of a mix of hesitation, relief, and longing. And then he ever so gently pulled his hand from Rumble's and pushed to his pedes, his plating ruffling before it settled around him.   
  
“I need to think about it,” he said. “There's a lot... there are other factors. I just... I need to think, Rumble.” He paused and rubbed a hand down his face. “I'm not saying that I don't want to, okay. I'm not.”   
  
Rumble shook his helm. “Bee, it's okay. I get it.”   
  
Some of the tension eased out of Bumblebee's shoulders. He looked down at Rumble and the smile he offered made Rumble's spark flutter.   
  
“I'll comm you?” Bee offered.   
  
Rumble grinned. “Sure. I'll be waiting on it.”   
  
He'd wait as long as it took.   
  


****


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus, Jazz, Soundwave, Laserbeak, Onslaught, Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, Springer  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings this chapter: referenced torture, rape, angst but nothing onscreen  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Iridescent," LInkin Park

Ultra Magnus was right about thing: despite his numerous failures and the lack of the Matrix, the Autobots still favored Optimus to lead them. Even Jazz, who had every right to lose faith in him.   
  
Optimus was humbled by their loyalty. He vowed he would do whatever it took to protect them from now on. Even if it meant taking up arms again. Not against the Decepticons. He wasn't worried about them.   
  
But the Neutrals were proving more querulous than expected.   
  
Optimus had to give them a small amount of credit. Their troublesome behavior had done what eons of war could not: it united Autobot and Decepticon. It made Starscream less likely to dig in his thrusters and more likely to discuss things rationally and quickly. It made Ultra Magnus willing to bend, and made negotiations for the treaty go a lot faster.   
  
After all, they needed something solid in place before the Neutrals could swoop in and claim everything.   
  
Optimus accepted his appointment with the dignity it deserved. He only made the promises he felt he could keep, vowing to be fair and to think of the interests of all Cybertronians, but no longer at cost to the Autobots.   
  
He only asked for one thing for himself. He wanted to see proof that Megatron was well and truly gone. He wanted to be sure there was no chance of Megatron coming back to ruin this for everyone.   
  
Jazz gave him a knowing look when he asked, but he handed over the footage Rewind had shot all the same. Despite watching it, a sense of unreality lingered, and it continued to linger even after Jazz took him to the pile of melted slag that was all that remained of Megatron. Optimus had no proof that this was the warlord, save the video evidence, and even that could be faked.   
  
Only then did he realize how very irrational his thoughts were. That he was giving Megatron power over him, even from the Pit. He tried to banish the thoughts, but it was easier said than done.   
  
Megatron had left a stain on him that was not easily erased.   
  
Optimus refused to let himself sit around and wallow, however. He had to be strong. Some of his Autobots had suffered worse fates. Ratchet was concerned for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Deeply concerned.   
  
Mirage was like a ghost, flitting from room to room, and there was such hate in his optics that it worried Optimus. Swoop had been taken back into the Dinobot fold, but he was no longer the confident mech Optimus remembered. First Aid had taken the medbay for his own, even sleeping in the physician's quarters. His treatment had been somewhat better than most, but he'd bore witness to things no mech should be forced to see.   
  
Cliffjumper still waited for his fate. He was defiant, despite the shadows that lurked in his optics. He would take execution gladly, he'd said.   
  
Blitzwing had deserved to die.   
  
Ratchet was little better. He seemed strong and defiant, but Wheeljack had confessed that all was not as it seemed.   
  
Hound had a smile on his face, but even Optimus could see it was forced. The perpetually sunny scout had a shadow in his optics, and where he had once been so quick to be affectionate, he flinched if anyone came too near.   
  
Perceptor and Bluestreak were alike. They were bothered by what had happened to their friends and colleagues, but they were, for the most part, unharmed.   
  
Save for Ultra Magnus' Wreckers, the Autobots were a motley collection of damaged, hurting mechs and Optimus was at a loss for how to lead them and protect them.   
  
There were developments on the Decepticon front as well. Optimus did not know what happened, but the next time they all met, Grimlock looked smug and Starscream had several temp patches on his frame.   
  
Grimlock was now the leader of the Decepticons with Starscream as his second. The Seeker did not seem especially pleased about this, but he didn't seem mutinous either. They had come to some sort of agreement, and it clearly wasn't Optimus' place to press for details. Nor was he sure he wanted them.   
  
Their third, he would learn, was Cyclonus, who was not loyal to Megatron or the Decepticons, but to Cybertron itself. One of Megatron's more quieter generals, Cyclonus was often on the fringe of the war and kept to himself. But Optimus had never heard anything of him but honorable things, and Jazz did not seem bothered by his appointment. Optimus trusted Jazz's judgment.   
  
Soundwave, however, was not mentioned at all. Which was curious.   
  
Motormaster and Shockwave were imprisoned, Starscream informed him. As were Scrapper and the Constructicons. They would be let out incrementally on a trial basis, but they could hold no rank in the Decepticon echelon.   
  
Optimus would get his answer for Soundwave's absence much later. After a long day spent haggling over every little detail of the treaty, Optimus retired to the small room Ultra Magnus had set aside for him on the _Xantium_. He was still healing but loath to return to the medbay, he opted to recover in the privacy of his habsuite.   
  
He sat on the berth and begun sipping at his energon, feeling the ache in his shoulders, his neck, his legs. Recharge was touch and go, even with the inhibitor Ratchet had given him, but there was no time for a vacation. He couldn't take the time off to recover. There was simply too much to do.   
  
That was when he heard the chime of someone requesting permission to enter his habsuite. Optimus tensed. His only visitors had been Autobots, all of whom contacted him via comm before they visited him in person.   
  
Optimus set his cube on the small table and approached the door, frame tense. His inbuilt weaponry had been returned to him during his long repairs, but he did not want to draw his blaster on an ally. Only an ally could have gotten onboard the _Xantium_.   
  
He pressed the panel. The door slid open to reveal Soundwave of all mechs.   
  
Optimus blinked. “Can I help you?”  
  
“Discussion requested.”   
  
He tilted his helm. “In regards to what?”   
  
“Soundwave's future.”   
  
Optimus shifted his weight. His defense protocols stood down, but he couldn't chase away his unease so quickly. Soundwave was too deeply ingrained as a Decepticon in his subconscious for it not to be unsettling.   
  
“Shouldn't you be talking to Starscream about that?” he asked. He didn't bother to mention Grimlock. Whatever intricacies of command the two had worked out, Optimus wasn't privy to the details.   
  
Soundwave's visor dimmed. “Starscream irrelevant.”  
  
Optimus squinted. Sometimes, Soundwave's lack of context made him more than difficult to understand. Finally, he sighed. Answers would not be had in a brief conversation. He stepped aside, gesturing into his habsuite.   
  
“Fine,” he said in a clipped tone. “Speak your peace.”   
  
“Appreciation given, Optimus Prime.”   
  
“I'm not Prime anymore, you know,” Optimus said as Soundwave entered and the door shut behind him.   
  
The Communications Officer made no moves toward a chair, instead standing in the middle of the room and looking back at Optimus.   
  
“Negative,” Soundwave said, and his field drifted out, tentatively brushing Optimus' own. It was... unreadable. Not unpleasant, simply unreadable. “You are Prime.”   
  
Semantics. Optimus did not feel like arguing them.   
  
“What do you want, Soundwave?” he asked, and he was suddenly tired. He'd been interrupted in the middle of his meal and he was about to head to recharge. This was most inconvenient.   
  
Soundwave inclined his helm, his pose relaxed but something tense in the way he held himself, plating clamped tight and his field the same. His dock was empty; Optimus could see that much by the shadows behind his chestplate. He'd come here without so much as a symbiote, but that didn't mean there weren't any in the vents.   
  
And that's when Optimus realized that Soundwave no longer bore the Decepticon brand. Where it had once been so prominent on his dock, the area was free and clean.   
  
“Did Starscream cast you out?” he demanded, outraged on Soundwave's behalf. He was far from the only one complicit in helping the Autobots take down Megatron!   
  
“Negative.” Soundwave lifted a hand and touched the empty space on his dock. “This by choice. My choice.” His emphasis on the possessive was fierce.   
  
Optimus tilted his helm. “You're no longer a Decepticon. Why?”   
  
“Decepticons... no longer follow the path Soundwave trusts.” Something in his field flickered, but it was gone before Optimus could identify it. “Trust Starscream even less.”   
  
Optimus snorted a laugh. “Well, I cannot blame you there. He's a step up from Megatron, but that doesn't make him better.” He lowered himself into a chair and again gestured for Soundwave to sit.   
  
Again, he was ignored. Soundwave's hands hung at his sides, but his fingers were slowly drawing in and out of fists.   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and dropped the levity from his tone. “You're not a Decepticon. And you're not following Starscream. What are you going to do, Soundwave?”   
  
“Swear loyalty to another,” Soundwave replied and he lowered his helm as though in subservience. His legs followed until he knelt on the floor. “To Optimus.”  
  
Optimus was back on his pedes before he registered the motion, the speed of it making his fatigued processor spin. “No.” His hand slashed through the air. “I have never demanded that of anyone, and I will not start now.”   
  
He reached for Soundwave's arm, grabbing him above the elbow and pulling him back to his pedes. Soundwave was of a height with him, but his mass was greater, and Optimus struggled. But it was enough to get Soundwave where he belonged, upright and proud.   
  
Soundwave stared back at him, and for all that his face was hidden by visor and mask, he looked startled to Optimus. His field spoke of it as well.   
  
“If you wish to be an Autobot, if you wish to serve with me, that is one thing,” Optimus continued, squeezing Soundwave's elbow once before he backed off. He'd already begun to shake, and he didn't want Soundwave to see it. “But I will not have you beneath me and I will take no oath, at least, not one that swears fealty.”   
  
Soundwave tilted his helm. “You would accept a Decepticon's commitment?”  
  
Optimus opened his mouth to answer, a kneejerk response, and then realized, he could not spout the same truths as before. It was not in him. He once thought the Autobots and Decepticons could live as one, in peace. Now, he was not so sure.   
  
He shook his helm and put another step between them, distancing their field. “It would depend on the Decepticon,” he admitted. He lowered himself back to his chair, clasping his hands to hide their trembling. “But yes. Should one come to me with honest intent, I would consider their proposal.”   
  
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Soundwave cleared his vocalizer and took one of the empty seats. Was it a gesture of trust? Of concession? Optimus didn't know. He was too tired to play political games. He was too tired of everything.   
  
“Allegiance offered,” Soundwave said, at length.   
  
Optimus leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair, bracing his chin on his knuckles. “There's a good chance the Autobots might not remain on Cybertron.”   
  
Soundwave nodded slowly. “Understood. Offer remains.”   
  
Cycling a ventilation, Optimus rubbed his faceplate. Soundwave was, as far as he knew, one of the few Decepticons who had not demanded a slave – save Bumblebee and Optimus had heard there were mitigating circumstances surrounding that. Soundwave had also not availed himself of any slaves.   
  
True, he'd invited himself into Optimus' mind upon Megatron's orders. But it wasn't the worst he could have done. And he'd offered Optimus kindness when it hadn't been demanded of him.   
  
He'd alluded to wanting to be rid of Megatron before. He'd never given Optimus a straight answer, however. Only implying that he had a distaste for slavery, one whose reasons were perhaps personal in nature.   
  
“Why?”   
  
Soundwave's field spiked, a nauseating mix of betrayal and anger and disappointment. His visor flashed as his helm tilted. He clasped his hands, leaned forward as though to make himself smaller.   
  
“Megatron: once revered,” he said, slowly. Carefully. As though he were choosing each word, each glyph with precision. “Promised opportunity. Freedom. Choice.” He paused, something rippling through his visor. “Cost too high.”   
  
Optimus frowned. “The cost?”   
  
“Home: desired.” Soundwave's shoulder slumped. “Megatron: desired only power. Lost himself to it. Forgot himself. No longer Megatron.”   
  
“Or maybe it was there all along and you didn't see it because he was promising everything you wanted,” Optimus mused aloud. He drummed the fingers of his free hand against the opposite arm. “You couldn't leave sooner?”   
  
He felt it a foolish question the moment it passed his lips. Leave and go where? To the Autobots who would have shot him on sight? To be alone in the universe with his cassettes to care for and no way to care for them? Soundwave's only hope had been in victory and perhaps, by the end, he no longer cared who scored the win.   
  
Except Megatron's victory would have led them to further ruination.   
  
“Complications,” Soundwave admitted. His hand touched his deck again, gesturing to the cassettes that weren't present. “Loyalty given. No option to refuse.”   
  
Yes. Megatron never had been the type to take betrayal in stride. Optimus and the rest of Autobot command had always wondered why he suffered Starscream to lead. Perhaps because he had no better Air Commander. Perhaps because he'd gotten some sick delight in scrapping Starscream constantly. Perhaps it was a mutual hate that had grown into a co-dependency.   
  
Optimus didn't know. He didn't want to know. It wasn't any of his business because Starscream hadn't come to him asking for asylum. Soundwave had. It was Soundwave's motivations that were a concern to Optimus.   
  
It was enough that Starscream was working toward a truce, that he'd willingly become Grimlock's second in command and hadn't complained once about it. Or if he had, Optimus hadn't heard it.   
  
“Slavery,” Soundwave added, with far more reluctance in his tone than any other time. “Despised.” He shifted, field flashing a vile sort of personal disgust that Optimus felt no further questioning was necessary.   
  
This was something that could not be faked. That sense of hatred and revulsion, directed outwardly, but also inwardly as well. That clawing feeling of inadequacy and failure. Of never being clean.   
  
He knew it all too well.   
  
“Your cassettes?”   
  
“Decision: mine,” Soundwave said. His demeanor relaxed, ventilations easing. “Unanimous. Rumble, however, compromised.”   
  
Optimus' lips twitched toward a smile behind his mask. “Bumblebee.”   
  
Soundwave's visor flashed, this time with amusement. “Affirmative.”   
  
“Then it would do him well to know that I will not stand in the way of it.” Optimus rose to his pedes and offered his hand to Soundwave, glad that the tremors had left him sometime during their conversation. “You are welcome in my cabinet, Soundwave. I will take your commitment. Though I caution that it will not be easy.”   
  
The Autobots as a whole did not like Decepticons. The survivors, especially now, loathed Decepticons. So much so that Optimus was of the mind that there could be no cooperative living. At least, not in the immediate present. Perhaps in the future, but for now? No. Pain was too fresh, atrocity too near.   
  
Soundwave could strip away the Decepticon badge all he liked, but he was distinctive. Everyone knew him to be Megatron's communication officer. That was not a reputation as easily wiped away. But with time and effort, perhaps, friendships could be made.   
  
“Understood,” Soundwave said. He took Optimus' hand and stood, though he was quick to release Optimus after the initial squeeze and brush of their fields. “Hard work acceptable.”   
  
“Well, we have plenty of that ahead of us.” Optimus managed something like a smile, except it occurred to him that Soundwave could not see it. “There are meetings tomorrow, first with the Autobots and then with the Decepticons to finalize the treaty. You are welcome to both.”   
  
“Thank you.” Soundwave dipped his helm in a perfunctory bow. “Mercy appreciated. Opportunity more so.”  
  
Optimus gestured toward the door and let Soundwave precede him. Fatigue had yet to cease gnawing at his cortex, and Optimus needed recharge.   
  
“I had a dream once,” Optimus said as the door opened for Soundwave and the mech – who moved rather silently for how large he was – stepped beyond it. “Of Autobots and Decepticons laying down arms and learning to live in peace. I don't know if that's still possible now, but I'd say this is at least a start.”   
  
Soundwave looked at him, expression as unreadable as always, but then he tapped his dock once more, right over the unmarked glass. “Little changes,” he said.   
  
Optimus' optics brightened by a degree. “Yes,” he agreed. “Little changes. Good night, Soundwave. And welcome to the Autobots.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Recharge continued to be a useless affair.   
  
Optimus did not like shutting down. He did not like the disorientation he felt upon onlining. He found he recharged marginally better if he kept a light on and some soft music playing because it was an instant reminder that he was no longer chained to Megatron's berth. But those few muzzy moments after reboot were the worst. Priority trees had rearranged themselves. He'd come to expect a spike in his valve first thing. Or fingers in his mouth. Or hands on his frame.   
  
He onlined, more often than not, slick and ready to be taken. He was wise enough to know that it was a defense mechanism his frame had put into place, but he hated that the priorities were even there. That they were a lot slower to purge themselves from his code than they had been to write themselves in there.   
  
Optimus had refused to take care of the charge. He'd lain there, hot and aching, until it went away on its own. Sometimes, he had to slip into the washracks and drown himself in the coldest solvent. The patter of it against his armor was a reminder.   
  
The arousal wasn't his. He didn't want it.   
  
And yes, the inhibitors helped. They put him in recharge and they kept him there, but he always onlined groggy. He never felt rested. One wasn't any better than the other. Plus, he could only use them sparingly.   
  
He used them just enough to get recharge to function. He would worry about the rest later when Autobots and Decepticons and Neutrals weren't on the edge of tipping back over into war. When Optimus' own soldiers could walk out of the medbay, physically healed at least, even if the mental health would take a longer time coming.   
  
The next morning was no different than the others. Optimus forced himself out of the berth, shook off the lingering dredges of memory purges, and waited for the unwelcome heat in his array to dissipate. He took a long shower, first cold and then scalding hot, scrubbing into every nook and cranny. He examined his weld lines and the weak spots, none of which were healing at the proper rate.   
  
Given that his recharge was suspect and he couldn't bring himself to fuel properly, that was probably the reason. All in due time. There were others things to worry about.   
  
Fuel warnings started pinging by the time he'd toweled off and stepped out of the washrack. The _Xantium_ didn't have in-room dispensaries so he'd have to stop by the common room on his way to the meeting. Optimus rifled through the datapads he'd accumulated, selecting the ones that had the various drafts of treaties, and tucked them under his arm.   
  
He had work to do.   
  
Optimus unlocked the command-level overrides he'd put on his door and keyed it to open. As it did so, he nearly leapt backward in surprise. Soundwave stood on the other side of the door, looking as though he were mid-motion to ping for entrance. He wasn't alone either. One of his avian cassettes – Laserbeak, Optimus suspected – perched on his shoulder opposite of his sonic blaster mount. Laserbeak cocked her helm at Optimus as though curious.   
  
Optimus blinked. Soundwave stared back at him.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Optimus asked, though it came out more of a demand. It was a bit disconcerting to find Soundwave lurking outside his door.   
  
Soundwave lifted his hands which Optimus belatedly realized carried a cube of energon each. “Refueling necessary.”   
  
“Yes it is.” Optimus eyed the two cubes. Did he trust Soundwave enough to drink from a cube he'd offered? “You didn't have to bring that.”   
  
“Soundwave knows. Assistance offered nonetheless.” Soundwave offered one of the cubes to him. It glowed with the dimness of mid-grade or medical grade. And it was probably the latter as that was probably in Optimus' best interest to consume.   
  
Optimus took the cube and gave it an explanatory sniff. A quick scan indicated it was nothing more than what it appeared to be: a small serving of medical grade energon. Besides, he supposed, what purpose would it serve for Soundwave to poison him? Such an underhanded technique was certainly Starscream's style if he was acting on Starscream's orders, but to what purpose?   
  
Optimus' medical and scientific staff was better than what the Decepticons had. They'd discern the origin of his illness in a sparkbeat and then they'd all be back where they started: at war.   
  
“Thank you,” Optimus said. He triggered his blast mask to open, taking a sip of the energon. He grimaced at the bland taste. “Good morning, Laserbeak.”   
  
She lifted her beak and trilled at him. Optimus felt the tiniest brush of her field, ripe with a surprised pleasure. Her wings fluttered at him. He assumed that she returned his greeting.   
  
“Your other cassettes?” Optimus asked. He started down the hall, Soundwave falling into step beside him. Again, he had an uncanny knack for moving silently where Optimus felt he lumbered.   
  
“Occupied,” Soundwave answered. He lifted his other cube, offering the open end toward Laserbeak who sipped from it.   
  
“Ah.” Optimus finished the last of the cube and dispersed the containment field with a flick of his wrist.   
  
He looked at Soundwave again, noting that the communications mech remained badgeless. Would he want to take the Autobot oath? Or did he prefer to remain neutral while aligning himself toward the Autobots? Optimus supposed that was something that needed to be discussed later. First, the Autobots as a whole needed to decide how they were going to accept defectors.   
  
“Have you discussed your defection with Starscream?”   
  
“Not Starscream's concern.”   
  
Optimus lifted a shoulder. “That's your decision to make, I suppose. But if we are all going to function together, we cannot have any lingering resentment.”   
  
“Understood.”   
  
Laserbeak finished her cube and Optimus watched Soundwave disperse it. He patted her on the helm, more affection than Optimus had ever seen him bestow, but it was clearly a practiced motion. There was loyalty as well. It made Optimus wonder about the true nature of a cassette and carrier relationship.   
  
They rounded another corner, the _Xantium_ 's conference room coming into view, as did the mech waiting outside it. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Optimus didn't know what Onslaught was waiting for, but he straightened as soon as he saw Soundwave and Optimus. He pushed off the wall, intercepting them both before they could get to the door.   
  
“Optimus Prime,” Onslaught acknowledged. His stance was unthreatening, but the fact remained that he was a massive, strong Decepticon. “If I might have a word.”   
  
A Decepticon without a badge, actually, just like Soundwave had scrubbed off his.   
At this rate, would Starscream have any Decepticons to lead?  
  
“I am about to enter an important meeting, Onslaught. What can I do for you?” Optimus left the wariness in his tone on purpose. He doubted it was an accident that Onslaught had all but laid in wait for him.   
  
“I wish to discuss the future of myself and my teammates.” Onslaught clasped his wrists behind his back.   
  
Optimus had suspected as much. “I understand. I don't have time at the moment, but after my meetings have concluded for the day, we can revisit your request. Is that fair?”  
  
The light behind Onslaught's visor shifted from Optimus to Soundwave and back again. “I will hold you to your word,” he said. He tilted his helm toward Soundwave. “Commander.”   
  
Onslaught spun on a heel and strode down the hall, opposite the direction Optimus and Soundwave had come. Who had invited him onto the _Xantium_ was a curiosity. Or had something been decided to allow self-proclaimed badgeless entrance? It was something Optimus would have to address later. For now, he had a meeting to attend. One he was already running late for.   
  
Optimus turned toward the conference room door, which opened without his prompting. Soundwave followed in behind him and four helms swung their direction, a startled spike of energy fields immediately following, no doubt because of Soundwave's presence.   
  
“Sir?” Ultra Magnus asked. He was pushing slowly to his pedes, his optics focused on Soundwave behind Optimus' right shoulder.   
  
“Soundwave has petitioned to join the Autobots and I have accepted his proposal. If you have a legitimate concern regarding his presence, you are welcome to address it with me after the meeting.”   
  
It was harder than he expected to hold on to a sense of poise and leadership. He stood in front of three of the mechs he had failed and wondered if he had any right to lead them.   
  
Jazz leaned back in his chair and propped his pedes up on the table, crossing them at the ankle. “Given that old Sounders here is the one that helped make all this possible, I say we let him into the Clubhouse. Let bygones be bygones and all that Jazz.” Half his visor lit in a wink.   
  
“Not that it was up for a vote,” Ratchet muttered. He scrubbed his hand down his face, leaning heavily against the table.   
  
Fatigue was writ into every clamped armor plate of the medic's frame. His field was a frayed thread that wound through the room, poking at others as though he couldn't control it. Or maybe he no longer bothered to try.   
  
Optimus wondered if he would be forced to make Ratchet take medical leave. Or if such enforced rest would only worsen matters.   
  
“It is something we'll have to discuss,” Optimus said as he took one of the remaining chairs and gestured for Soundwave to take the one next to him. “I suspect given recent events that we'll be faced with quite a few defectors.”   
  
Ultra Magnus slowly lowered himself back to his chair and dragged his datapad closer. “I'll add it to the agenda.”   
  
“So long as he doesn't get the urge to go poking around inside my helm, I won't make a fuss,” Magnus' second – Springer, Optimus believed – said. He crossed his arms and fixed Soundwave with a glare. “Don't start nothing and there won't be nothing.”  
  
Soundwave made a low rumble in his chassis, one Optimus wouldn't have heard if he hadn't been seated next to the mech. “Physical contact required,” he explained as the click-click of Laserbeak's talons on his shoulder punctuated his words. “Distance reading difficult and unproductive.”   
  
“Well that's something of a relief,” Springer retorted. Every inch of him bristled with discomfort however.   
  
Optimus fought the urge to both sigh and rub his faceplate. “What's the first order of business, Ultra Magnus?”   
  
Ultra Magnus cleared his vocalizer and reshuffled his datapads, but Ratchet broke in before he could get out so much as a glyph.   
  
“If it's all the same to you, I'd like to give you my report and go. I have patients that need care, not conversation,” Ratchet grumbled. His tetchiness was far more prevalent than usual.   
  
Optimus made a mental note to have yet another conversation with Wheeljack. Perhaps the engineer could provide better advice.   
  
“I am fine with that.” Magnus gestured to the medic. “Please proceed, Ratchet.”   
  
Ratchet gave him a slanted look but leaned back in his chair, trying to pull off the same relaxed air as Jazz but the tension in his frame belying it. “The easiest fixes were those like Jazz here – malnutrition, shrunken tanks, the general disrepair from being on the run. Anyone who wasn't a guest of the Decepticons is on the road to recovery and I foresee no problems. It's everyone else that's going to require longer care.” Razor-sharp optics focused on Optimus. “Including you, great leader, who should still be in a berth.”   
  
“We've had this discussion, Ratchet. I am mobile. I can be working. What of the others?” Optimus redirected. He was repaired. He was healing. Being confined to berth was not going to speed up the process any further.   
  
Ratchet harrumphed but continued, “Bluestreak was in the best repair of everyone. The Combaticons treated him well and while he's not talking much, physically, he's fine.”  
  
“Treated him well,” Springer repeated with a sneer. “Is that a euphemism for 'they didn't use him too hard but that's okay?'”  
  
Ratchet's optics narrowed. “The particulars of his physical health are a matter of privacy. But if you think that I'm going to rate the degree of everyone's suffering, you are sorely mistaken. The Combaticons treated him well because they did not touch him,” he hissed, his plating fluffed out as though he expected to go charging into battle. “Other than training him, they left him alone.”   
  
“Which is good to know,” Ultra Magnus said, ever diplomatic. “Bluestreak has a better chance of recovery because of this. And the Combaticons did help us take down Megatron and his Decepticons, much like Soundwave.”   
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation and gestured to Ratchet, “Please continue. What of the others?”  
  
“Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are both berth-bound and under heavy sedation. I can't move them more than a few feet from each other. Whatever Shockwave did, it's going to take time and discussion to either reverse or mitigate.” Ratchet rubbed his forehelm, the fatigue settling heavier on his shoulders. “Hound, on the other hand, is almost completely repaired. I expect to discharge him in a couple of days. Physically, he'll be capable of any task you give him. Mentally, well, I can't judge. I'm not a psychologist. The Coneheads were a trio of creatively sick bastards.”  
  
“I'll take care of Hound,” Jazz said. His tone was right, the set to his jaw promising dire retribution on those who had hurt his team.   
  
Another topic of discussion, but one they would have to have with Decepticon command. Punishing Decepticons was probably going to fall outside the Autobot's purview unfortunately. Lest war begin again.   
  
“Mirage, too,” Jazz added. He kicked back, pedes hitting the ground with a thump. There was challenge in his visor as he folded his hands in his lap. “They're my mechs, my team, and I'll look after 'em. Me, Trailbreaker, and Smokescreen.”   
  
“Who is not, if I might repeat, a trained psychologist,” Ratchet growled, his field snapping with an angry fizz. “No matter what lies he feeds you. He's got insight. He knows how a mech's mind works, that's what he was trained for. He knows how to break them. That doesn't mean he knows how to fix them.”   
  
Jazz spread his hands. “Right now, Ratch, he's all we got. And I'll take something over nothing, if you ask me.”   
  
Ratchet muttered subvocally, but he didn't push the issue. Privately, Optimus agreed. Smokescreen might not be a trained, accredited psychologist and his experience might come from what he knew as an interrogator, but he would suffice for now. It was better than leaving the Autobots without any sort of guidance at all.   
  
“First Aid is physically sound. He's been of great help in the medbay,” Ratchet continued, giving Jazz a slanted look. “But I worry about the effect of losing the rest of his gestalt. He's unsurprisingly close-mouthed about it, but insists he'd rather work than take any recovery time.”   
  
Well, Ratchet was one to talk. Though his currently volatile mood suggested that now was not the time to be snide.   
  
“I've surrendered Swoop back to Grimlock's care per Grimlock's insistence. It was against medical advice, but it's pretty hard to argue with an angry T-rex.” Ratchet's fingers drummed on the table. “Physically, he's fine. It remains to be seen what, exactly, Shockwave did.”   
  
Shockwave. It always came back to Shockwave. Optimus remembered his visit to that place of horrors. He couldn't imagine what his Autobots had suffered.   
  
“What of Perceptor?” Optimus asked.   
  
Ratchet sighed and rubbed his faceplate. “Perceptor is surprisingly fine. The Insecticons don't understand the concept of consent, but they took his well-being into account, kept him fueled and maintained. I suspect that some of the time, they forgot he was there. If you want to know whether or not that was a relief, you'll have to ask him, though I wouldn't suggest it.”  
  
“And Cliffjumper?”   
  
Ratchet went a little still, the plating around his shoulders shuffling before clamping down tight. “I have repaired Cliffjumper,” he said quietly. “Physically, there is nothing more I can do for him. I have replaced or repaired everything that had been damaged.”  
  
Optimus frowned, his optical ridges drawing down. “Mentally?”   
  
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and met Optimus' gaze squarely. “Optimus, if I had to hazard a guess, Cliffjumper was one of the first Autobots taken into custody after we went down. Which suggests to me that for a long time, Megatron probably did not know he'd been found. The triple-changers were not his only owners. They were merely the most recent ones.”   
  
Ice dropped into Optimus' tanks. The command center went silent.   
  
“Assumption correct,” Soundwave offered, his monotone soft but still cutting. “Original captors did not disclose. Similar circumstances with Autobot Tracks. Megatron discovered. Punished Decepticons responsible. Cliffjumper declared soon after. Coincidentally.”   
  
“Primus,” Springer breathed. He buried his face behind his palm.   
  
The energon in his tanks gurgled. Optimus cycled several ventilations. “Who?”   
  
Soundwave shifted on his chair. “No Decepticon admitted misdeed. Permission not given to discern truth.” Laserbeak shuffled on his shoulder, her helm bowed.   
  
Well, of course not. What Decepticon would invite Megatron's punishment? Unicron take them all.   
  
Disgust settled hard in Optimus' tanks.   
  
“We will be lenient,” Ultra Magnus said, at length. “Cliffjumper could not have been in a rational state of mind.”   
  
“None of us were,” Jazz bit out but he cycled a ventilation and set his jaw. “Was there anyone else?”   
  
“Just Red Alert,” Ultra Magnus said, sliding out a datapad from the bottom of his stack. He audibly rebooted his vocalizer, an abnormally loud sound in the sudden silence of the room.   
  
“Yes. The most complicated of my patients, outside of the twins, saving at least with them, I can ask Shockwave what he did. I don't have that option with Trepan.” Ratchet's gaze slid toward Springer with an accusatory look.   
  
He shrugged, unrepentant.   
  
“We can only do what we can, Ratchet,” Ultra Magnus said. He folded his hands together, resting his arms on the table. “We did not know, at the time, that Trepan's survival was necessary. The mech would not surrender and he attacked one of my soldiers. That was reason enough.”   
  
Optimus held up a hand. “We're not debating the necessity. I understand what had to be done. It is just unfortunate that we are unable to help Red Alert immediately.”  
  
Clearly, there was some tension between his Autobots and Ultra Magnus' team. That, too, would have to be addressed. Perhaps as soon as Ratchet was done. They had to be united if they hoped to make peace with both the Decepticons and the Neutrals.   
  
Ratchet muttered something and pushed to his pedes. He pulled out a datapad and set it down on the table with an audible click.   
  
“This is my report,” he said, one finger pressed to the powered down pad. “It has all the details I'm legally allowed to give. If you have any questions, ask me. Otherwise, I'm done here.” He waited for the length of a ventilation before he backed away from the table and circled it, heading straight for the door.   
  
“Thank you, Ratchet,” Optimus said, catching his CMO's gaze as Ratchet passed. “I'll come by the medbay after my meetings if that is all right with you.”   
  
He was offered something akin to a smile. “I'll make it an order if I have to, old friend,” Ratchet said, hand lifting as though he intended to rest it on Optimus' shoulder, but then he changed his mind. His fingers pulled back, hand returning to his side.   
  
Ratchet left.   
  
Optimus turned his attention to those who remained. Ultra Magnus had snagged Ratchet's datapad and was now skimming the contents. Jazz tipped his helm back, his field neutral but Optimus was not fooled. Springer looked as though he were about to recharge.   
  
Frag, but Optimus missed Prowl.   
  
He sighed and folded his arms over the table. “This seems like a good time to discuss the command structure,” Optimus said, resisting the urge to snap his fingers to get their attention.  
  
“You are Prime,” Jazz said with a slanted look toward Springer as though daring the green mech to declare otherwise. “Whatever happens, I'm only going to follow you, boss. That's the way it's gonna be.”   
  
“No one is stating otherwise, Jazz.” Ultra Magnus set down his datapad and pinched his olfactory sensor. “There are, however, multiple positions now... vacant.” He winced. “We have to restructure accordingly. To that end, I would like to install Springer as Field Commander. He has served as my second and I trust him to be capable.”   
  
Optimus considered. Springer would, in essence, be replacing Ironhide, who had served as Optimus' fourth depending on the circumstances. But that would also put him in command of mechs like Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Cliffjumper, and Bluestreak, the infantry divisions. Optimus supposed he could promote from within, but his Autobot crew was both recovering and shortstaffed. Right now, Sideswipe was in no state to take over as Ironhide had been grooming him for.   
  
His gaze shifted to Jazz in question. Jazz shrugged.   
  
“Works for me,” he said. “So long as he knows to keep his hands off my mechs. You want to borrow them, you come to me.”   
  
“Give me a list,” Springer retorted.   
  
Optimus' helm started to ache. Maybe it was the fatigue. “For that matter then, Ultra Magnus, I would like you to serve as Chief Tactician and my second in command.” Magnus, at least, had the tact and the knowledge to serve in what should be considered a time of peace. His knowledge of various laws would come in handy.   
  
As much as Prowl had been teaching Smokescreen and Trailbreaker, neither were suited to replace him at the moment. Both were needed elsewhere. Besides, Ultra Magnus was always meant to lead in Optimus' absence, though Optimus had envisioned Prowl assisting him at the time.   
  
Ultra Magnus blinked and his gaze slid to Jazz. “I would have thought--”  
  
“Not for me, mech,” Jazz interrupted with a sharp shake of his helm. “I'm where I need to be. You two make sure we're safe with words. I'll handle the rest.”   
  
Leadership, Optimus knew, had been something Jazz had never sought nor wanted. If it were at all possible, he probably would have passed the mantle on to Mirage and called himself retired.   
  
“Then the other command positions should remain the same,” Ultra Magnus said, returning his attention to Optimus. “Provided they are capable. Ratchet as Chief Medical Officer. Perceptor as Chief Engineer if he is ready enough. Communications officer...?”  
  
“Will remain Blaster,” Optimus said firmly. He turned his gaze to Soundwave. “I would like you to serve as an adviser to me regarding the Decepticons, but I'm afraid I cannot offer you a command position.”   
  
Soundwave inclined his helm. “Understood. No offense taken. Advising preferred.” On his shoulder, Laserbeak bobbed her helm as well as though in agreement.   
  
Optimus heard three sets of ventilations sigh in relief. Did they honestly think he was just going to appoint a recently former Decepticon to Autobot command? He was optimistic, not foolish!   
  
“Wheeljack's gonna take over for Percy until he's up to it,” Jazz said. He propped one pede on the edge of the table and rocked his chair. “Ratchet's already appointed Aid as CMO-in-training. And for your information, Bumblebee is my second right now.”   
  
“Not Mirage?” Optimus frowned.   
  
Jazz shook his helm, visor dimming. “No. He can't. I dunno that he ever will, OP. He's angry. And you can't do what we do and be angry.”   
  
Springer scoffed. “We're all angry.”   
  
“And when Megatron executes your spark partner, you can repeat that. But for now, shut the frag up,” Jazz retorted, his words mild, but with a cutting edge beneath them. Jazz always did get protective of his team. His pede pushed off the table and hit it again, making the whole thing shudder. “For that matter, Prime, we do have to make some kind of announcement about Cliffjumper. Starscream's getting lippy.”   
  
“He will simply have to be patient then. I am more concerned for Cliffjumper's recovery than I am his punishment.” He sat back in his chair and sighed. “It will probably become part of the treaty. I suspect Starscream will make it a matter of recompense.”   
  
“A spark for a spark,” Jazz muttered with a scowl. “If we ask for execution of all those raping pieces of garbage, Starscream will demand Cliff gets the death penalty, too. Fair is fair.”   
  
It was unfortunate. But Optimus did understand Starscream's position. He did not condone the actions of the Decepticons, but he couldn't let Autobots execute them either. They were, as of now, officially under his command. He had to do what was politically correct. The unfortunate fact remained: they needed the Constructions. They needed Shockwave. They needed hands for physical labor.   
  
Ultra Magnus pinched his forehelm. “Ah, what a nightmare.”   
  
“You don't even know the half of it,” Jazz said. He pulled a datapad out of subspace and all but flung it onto the table. He didn't elaborate on what was on it.   
  
“Then I suppose that brings us to our next and final order of business: the treaty with the Decepticons, what concessions we intend to make, and what demands of ours we will not budge on,” Optimus said. He pulled out a datapad of his own, with the newest draft of the treaty upon it.   
  
Ultra Magnus and Springer followed suit, though the latter looked bored already. Even Soundwave had a copy of his own.   
  
Optimus sighed. Let the arguments begin.   
  


****


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1/IDW AU  
> Characters: Optimus, Ultra Magnus, Springer, Jazz, Soundwave, Laserbeak, Starscream, Grimlock, Cyclonus, Onslaught  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings this chapter: None  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "What a Wonderful World," Joseph William Morgan

It wasn't that Starscream's demands were ridiculous. Most of them were downright reasonable and expected. It was just that no one wanted to make even a single concession to a Decepticon. It didn't matter that Megatron wasn't leading them anymore. It was a visceral reaction.   
  
“We've passed the point of reconciliation, at least in the near future,” Ultra Magnus said as he peered at his datapad. “Given time, perhaps, we may function as one people but for now, it is best that we stay separate.”   
  
No one argued otherwise.   
  
“Shared living space unfeasible,” Soundwave said. He reached up, patting Laserbeak on the helm. “Nearby cities suitable for rebuilding. Choice available.”   
  
Jazz nodded slowly. He pressed his palms together, fingertips touching. “If I had ta choose, I'd say Polyhex if we can't kick the Cons out of Iacon. They left it relatively intact and some of the facilities are still useful.”   
  
Optimus frowned. It did seem rather backward to leave the Cons in Iacon while the Autobots left for Polyhex, but was better than trying to live in the vicinity of the Decepticons.   
  
“Who says we have to stay next door to the Cons? Why can't we hit the other pole?” Springer asked, raising both orbital ridges. “Kalis is in far better shape than Polyhex and we don't have to live within sight of Starscream.”   
  
“And how will we share resources?” Jazz pointed out, tipping a pede toward the triple-changer. “Do ya have any idea how long it takes to construct and program a space bridge? Are ya willing to have the Constructicons trundle on over to build one for us?”   
  
“It is not feasible,” Ultra Magnus admitted. His stylus scritched at a fast pace across his datapad. “The wisest course would be to remain in Iacon but even I know that is the unwelcome option. Polyhex would be less objectionable at least.”  
  
Optimus nodded his agreement. “We don't have to leave immediately. We can scout the surrounding area and decide the best place to make our own.”   
  
“Already done.” Jazz pressed a button and tapped his datapad across the table, activating some type of hologram.   
  
A map of the surrounding area sprang to life, nearby cities highlighted with an approval rating. No doubt each had been evaluated for residency. Polyhex was indeed at the top of the list, but Kalis was a close second.   
  
“The metrotitan at Kalis?” Optimus asked.   
  
Jazz shook his helm. “Either deep in stasis or offline. I didn't stick around long enough to find out. Something about the city gave me the creeps.”   
  
Hmm. If Jazz was uncomfortable, it was probably for good reason.   
  
“I think Polyhex is the better choice then,” Optimus said. “We can look into rebuilding all of Cybertron later, but for now, we need a stable place to start.”   
  
“Polyhex then?” Ultra Magnus asked.   
  
Optimus nodded. “Unless there are other reasons to protest, yes.” He looked down at his datapad, marking the decision off. He trusted Ultra Magnus to update the treaty accordingly.   
  
The treaty was over three hundred pages long. It delineated the details of almost every interaction that could possibly come into play between Autobot and Decepticon.   
  
Of most importance, however, was how to deal with war crimes. For fairness' sake, neither side could prosecute the other for anything that happened during the war. Once the door was opened, they couldn't shut it. So Autobot and Decepticon alike were summarily pardoned.   
  
This was for the sake of both factions.   
  
Unfortunately, that also applied to anything that occurred before the signing of the treaty. Optimus could not call for the execution or punishment of the Decepticons imprisoned for their assault of the enslaved Autobots. But all the same, Starscream could not demand that they punish Cliffjumper.   
  
Which wasn't to say that the guilty parties weren't going to face justice. As much as Optimus sympathized with Cliffjumper, he couldn't let the Autobots believe vigilantism was acceptable. Or personal vendettas. Though Optimus was also more concerned with helping Cliffjumper than causing more harm. Optimus had no doubts that Starscream had his own idea of punishment for the Decepticons guilty of assaulting the Autobots.   
  
Post signing of the treaty, any offenders would be punished based upon the location of the crime. A Decepticon in Autobot territory who attacked an Autobot would be judged by the Autobot justice system. And vice versa. In other words, if they weren't home, they'd better be on their best behavior. Appeals could be made to their own faction if they felt the punishment was unjust.   
  
Starscream had also pledged, in the treaty, to support the Autobots with energon until they could build their own energon manufacturing facilities. He had suggested that ownership of the energon refineries on Earth be joint. Guarded and run by both Autobot and Decepticon soldiers.   
  
Optimus already had an idea of which of his Autobots he'd like to send to Earth. He held off on asking them, however, until the treaty was officially signed.   
  
There were also guidelines for mechs who wished to defect. Optimus doubted that there was a single Autobot who wanted to flock to Starscream's banner, but just in case, there were now guidelines. Provided Starscream and Grimlock approved of them.   
  
“Is there anything else?” Ultra Magnus asked, the designated note-taker and editor for this particular meeting. Not that anyone else was quick to volunteer.   
  
Optimus skimmed the bullet points of the treaty. He couldn't see anything that was cause for debate. After several days worth of work, they'd found all of the weaknesses. At least in his personal opinion.   
  
Jazz wasn't even looking at his datapad. It still sat in the middle of the table, hologram lightly turning in its display of the surrounding area. Springer was using his own datapad as a makeshift fan.   
  
Optimus turned his attention to Soundwave who was paying equal attention to his datapad as Ultra Magnus, if not more. He'd offered several valuable insights into both the treaty and Starscream's thought process over the course of the morning. Laserbeak was now gone from his shoulder, no doubt folded into his dock to recharge.   
  
“I think we've covered everything that needs be discussed,” Optimus said at length. “Which gives us just enough time for a break before we have to meet the Decepticons.”  
  
“And you include Grimlock in that,” Jazz said. His pedes hit the ground with a _thwock_ as he dropped them from the table.   
  
“You must speak with him, Prime,” Ultra Magnus added as he gathered up his datapads, three times more than anyone else had brought.   
  
“It's on my to do list.” Optimus tried not to sigh, but he feared it was audible in his tone. “Hopefully, I can pull him aside before the meeting begins.” Grimlock, he knew, was quite angry and Optimus did not blame him. He had failed.   
  
Jazz rose to his pedes, stretching his arms above his helm with a popping of kinked cables. “I'm goin' to track down my mechs if any of ya need me.” He leaned over the table, snagging his holographic display.   
  
“Just don't miss the meeting,” Optimus warned.   
  
“I'm never late for anythin' that's important.” Jazz lit half his visor in a wink and was gone from the room before Optimus could formulate a response.   
  
Ultra Magnus and Springer departed as well, leaving Optimus alone with his datapads and Soundwave. Optimus wanted nothing more than to slump, give in to the pain pulsing through his helm, perhaps slide into something like a nap against the table. But he didn't dare display such weakness with Soundwave all but hovering next to him. He rubbed at his forehelm, feeling an ache behind his optics.   
  
Something tapped on the table.   
  
Optimus lowered his hand and stared down at a cube of energon placed in front of him. It was the same disheartening shade of medical grade that Soundwave had brought to him earlier. But it was just enough of a serving to take the edge off his hunger without overstressing his shrunken tanks.   
  
Soundwave had tapped a finger on the table to get his attention.   
  
Optimus blinked and looked at the former Decepticon. A rare humor rose up within him. “Have you made it your personal mission to keep me energized?” he asked as he curled his hand around it.   
  
Soundwave's expression remained unreadable. “Care needed. Soundwave obliged.”   
  
“I can take care of myself,” Optimus retorted, only to wince. He sounded very much like a child, he realized.   
  
Truth be told, Soundwave was partially right. It took all his effort to keep himself in motion, much less remember things like refueling properly.   
  
“Have you made yourself my assistant then?” he asked.   
  
“Duties not given.” Soundwave lifted his shoulders in a shrug that was far from nonchalant. “Duties assumed.”   
  
“Mmm. I suppose that makes sense.” Optimus popped the seal on the energon and took his first sip. It was getting easier to choke down the awful flavor. “I'll find you something to do. Are you amenable to working with Jazz?”   
  
“Jazz respected,” Soundwave said, and his visor deepened in hue. “Optimus Prime respected more.”   
  
“You'd rather work with me?”   
  
“Optimus Prime trusted more.”   
  
Well, he supposed he couldn't blame Soundwave there. Optimus trusted Jazz with his very spark. But he was fully aware of what Jazz's unit was involved in and the things Jazz had done for the Autobots. He was sneaky, secretive, and conniving. That smile and bluster was all a cover. Optimus knew this very well.   
  
Optimus nodded. “I understand. Once everything has settled, we will make sure to give you an assignment that suits. For now, you can sit in on the meetings as an adviser.”   
  
“Acceptable,” Soundwave said.   
  
That was reassuring. Optimus finished his energon and dispersed the field. He pushed to his pedes and rubbed at the base of his spinal strut where a kink in his cables had developed.   
  
“I'm sure you have somewhere to be so I'll see you at the meeting with the Decepticons later,” Optimus said. “Thank you for all your assistance.”   
  
Soundwave dipped his helm. “No gratitude necessary, but you're welcome all the same.”   
  
Soundwave also took his leave and finally, Optimus was alone. He couldn't decide whether or not that was a good thing. It did give him the opportunity to ventilate and focus on the fatigue that had taken over his entire frame.   
  
He was lagging. His HUD was telling him that much. He couldn't think as fast as he needed to and Ratchet's reminders to rest kept echoing in his helm.   
  
Optimus rubbed his faceplate and left the conference room, the datapad tucked under his arm. He had no desire to return to the small habsuite Ultra Magnus had given him. But he remembered the _Xantium_ having an observation deck.   
  
He found it two decks up, barely wide enough for three mechs, but it had open air and a view of Decepticon-controlled Iacon. Optimus' spark flared within his chamber. There was nothing comforting about the sight of Iacon anymore. It had been his home once upon a time.   
  
Megatron had forever changed that for him.   
  
“Could be a better view, I guess. But beggars can't be choosers.”   
  
Optimus glanced over his shoulder to find Jazz strolling out onto the deck, visibly nonchalant but undoubtedly, not so much underneath. Nothing Jazz ever did was casual. Especially not right now when he was technically still in mission-mode. He wouldn't drop out of it until both treaties were signed.   
  
“I thought you were going to find your team.”   
  
“I am. Wanted to talk to ya first.” Jazz pulled himself up onto the railing, his legs swinging as though he were a child on the playground.   
  
Optimus gave him a slanted look. “About which matter?”   
  
“Too many to count, let's start with an important piece of info I discovered.” Jazz propped an elbow on a knee. “Like how our Earth allies had a little help in forcing us to leave.”   
  
Optimus leaned against the wall. “I suspected as much. Pretenders?”   
  
“Nah. Bombshell. What worked once, worked twice.” Jazz cycled a ventilation, frown replacing his easygoing grin. “The Decepticon pullback was part of the plan. Make it more believable if the humans wanted us gone once it was clear the Cons were gone. Megatron might have been an idiot, but Starscream wasn't. He knew exactly how you'd react.”   
  
Optimus bowed his helm, guilt clawing at his spark. “In other words, he knew I would do exactly what the humans demanded out of respect for their freedom to choose.”   
  
Jazz, politely, did not comment on how frequently he'd cautioned Optimus on that very behavior. He could have been the first to point fingers and place blame, but he hadn't. He still believed in Optimus' ability to lead them. Optimus could not even begin to show his appreciation for that loyalty.   
  
“And so the Decepticons ambushed us as we returned,” Optimus said. He crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hunching. “It was a coordinated attack, the likes of which Megatron did not usually employ.”   
  
“Starscream's idea. As was most of it. Seems like he finally learned how to get Megatron to listen to 'im.”   
  
It was almost brilliant, Optimus reasoned. Starscream had spent so long appearing as nothing more than a repeat failure, that his success had come as a surprise. It had led everyone to underestimate him, even his own faction.   
  
“And yet, in the end, it was he who helped us take down his lord and master,” Optimus mused aloud.   
  
“Probably his endgame, if I had to guess.” Jazz shrugged. “Then again, I'm pretty damn sure Starscream didn't predict the route Megatron would take. Not for the reasons you'd think though. But unless his motivations are important to you, I'd let it drop.”   
  
“You may have a point,” Optimus conceded. There might come a time when he could ask Starscream, but at the moment, it was better to focus on the treaty and stabilizing their residence on Cybertron. So long as Starscream treated his soldiers well and committed no atrocious acts against the Autobots, there would be nothing to address.   
  
“Course I do.” Jazz stretched his arms over his helm, perfectly balanced on the bars. “So I also noticed that Soundwave is sticking pretty close to ya.” His tone was mild, but nothing Jazz ever said was coincidental.   
  
Optimus inclined his helm. “Yes. He claims he trusts me.”   
  
Jazz made a noncommittal noise. “And I suppose it don't have anythin' to do with the fact ole Sounders always attaches himself to the head honcho.”   
  
“I cannot speak for him.” Optimus sighed and pinched his forehelm. “I have the choice to trust him. I choose to do so. For all intents and purposes, he was kind to me. He did not have to assist you in eliminating Megatron, but he did. For that, he deserves the benefit of an opportunity.”   
  
“Not sayin' he doesn't. I'm just sayin' be careful.” Jazz rolled his shoulders in a shrug that was anything but casual. He hopped down from the railing, dusting off his arms. “Admit it or not, Prime, you're vulnerable right now. You're not one-hundred percent. We all know it, and you can bet Unicron's rusted undergarments that Soundwave does, too. He may not like Starscream but they got one thing in common: they know how to take an advantage when they see one.”   
  
Optimus frowned, but he couldn't deny that Jazz was right. If not entirely then at least in part.   
  
“I do not think it necessary, but I will be cautious nonetheless,” Optimus said. “Thank you.”   
  
Jazz beamed. “No problem, OP.” He clapped his hands together, the tension in his field vanishing as though it hadn't been there at all. “Now I'm really goin' ta find my team and leave ya to your brooding. Don't get lost in your head, yeah?”   
  
“I'll try.”   
  
Jazz departed and at last, Optimus had his solitude. Not that being alone was what he wanted, but it felt a bit of an indulgence at the moment. From the moment he'd been caught by the triple-changers, he hadn't had any peace. He was either under Megatron's thumb or on display or unconscious in the medical center.   
  
He'd never craved solitude before. Suddenly, it felt like an indulgence.   
  
It felt unreal. Optimus suspected half his trouble recharging was because he expected to online still in chains. That this was all some sort of spark-felt dream that would be shattered upon waking. Megatron wouldn't be dead. The Autobots and Decepticons wouldn't be working toward peace. And Optimus would still be spiraling toward a point of no return.   
  
It was hard to accept. He felt oddly disassociated from it. Ratchet would probably have something to say about that, but he had enough on his hands already. And problems of his own.   
  
What would Ironhide have done? Or Prowl?   
  
Primus, but he missed them. He missed each and every one of the soldiers Megatron had slaughtered. Omega Supreme and Skyfire. Inferno and the Aerialbots. Too many to name, all of them heavy on his spark.   
  
Optimus sighed and braced his elbows on the railing, hanging his helm. There was no quick fix, he knew. Nothing but time and patience and understanding.   
  
Hopefully, he would have enough of that now.  
  
A reminder ping hit Optimus' neural net not long after. He roused himself from his meditative stupor and idly stretched his limbs. It was time to do battle with the Decepticons now, though this time his weapons would be words and a stylus. Much less chance of casualties.   
  
He would also be facing Grimlock, Optimus acknowledged. It was something he'd always expected would happen sooner or later but not like this.   
  
The meeting to discuss the finalized treaty was not to be held aboard the _Xantium_ , but in a conference room Megatron had never used on the top floor of the Decepticon citadel. Optimus couldn't shake a crawling discomfort as he walked the familiar halls. He swore he could still feel the weight of the collar around his intake. He had to stop himself from shuffling – there was no weight around his ankles.   
  
At least the conference room was open and airy. One whole wall was made of windows, the shutters pulled back to let in the pale light offered by the numerous floodlights. Eventually, they'd need to discuss that, too. Cybertron could not continue to aimlessly roam the universe.   
  
The Decepticons had eschewed a table as well, preferring an arrangement of assorted chairs in the center of the room. It meant there was plenty of room to escape if need be and helped change the sensation of being trapped.   
  
There were only two Decepticons present – Starscream and Cyclonus – and though Optimus knew that Grimlock had officially taken command of the Decepticons, he was loath to call Grimlock one. Granted, the Dinobot leader had stripped away all badges from his frame, but Optimus did not wish to give him a label he did not want.  
  
Optimus, for his part, had initially only asked Ultra Magnus and Jazz to attend. He invited Soundwave later as a neutral party.   
  
Starscream and Cyclonus were in deep conversation near the display screen while Grimlock was standing by the window, arms folded as he stared through the transteel. It was not a very inviting pose, but Optimus could not allow himself to be intimidated. Grimlock did not frighten him, or at least, Optimus had always thought so.   
  
It never occurred to him until now how much larger and stronger the Dinobot leader was. Not unlike the supersoldiers or Megatron. Optimus shuddered.   
  
No. Grimlock might have separated himself from the Autobots, but he was a good mech. Optimus trusted him.   
  
Optimus stepped up beside Grimlock, though he kept an appropriate distance. “If I might have a moment of your time?” Optimus asked.   
  
Grimlock half-shifted toward him, helm tilted. “Meeting's about to start,” he said, and gone was the dim-witted accent he had affected for the entirety of Optimus' experience with him.   
  
It was, as Jazz had often postulated, a cover to hide his true intelligence. No mere semi-intelligent beast could have accomplished what Grimlock had.   
  
“It will not take long,” Optimus assured him. “I won't try to convince you to return to the Autobots or ask you why. You owe me no explanations.”   
  
Grimlock's visor dimmed as though he were listening. He unfolded his arms, frame tilting further toward Optimus.   
  
“I only wish to apologize,” Optimus said. “In the past, I have treated you poorly and it was my decision that sent us all on this course. I am sorry for your loss. I would have prevented it if I could.”   
  
“You were a fool,” Grimlock said. He faced Optimus fully, his field gave nothing away. His words were deliberate, as though carefully chosen. “But that is who you are. Optimism and hope. You do what you had to do and so did I.”  
  
“I see.” Optimus lowered his gaze, resisting the urge to fidget. “For what it's worth, I think it is better for you this way. You will be a good leader, Grimlock. You _are_ a good leader. And you are the firm hand the Decepticons need.”   
  
Grimlock snorted. “Don't need you to tell me that.” He scratched at his jaw and gave Optimus a hard look. “Overlord killed Sludge. Shockwave tortured Swoop. They'll get what's coming to them. Don't give yourself too much credit.”   
  
“You're not angry?”  
  
Grimlock's field briefly spiked, giving Optimus a taste of the fury raging beneath and the cold promise he'd made. His visor darkened to a hue that Optimus realized fit in well with the Decepticons. He was a mech to be respected.   
  
“Plenty angry. Plenty of blame to give, too.” Grimlock audibly cycled a ventilation and shoved a hand toward Optimus. “Don't hate you. Never did. Got better things to do.”   
  
Optimus couldn't describe the relief that struck him. Anger he understood. Grimlock had every right. He only wanted Grimlock to know that he was sorry, that he realized he'd made mistakes and those mistakes had consequences.   
  
“Thank you,” Optimus said and briefly shook Grimlock's hand. He subtly stepped back, out of the force and strength of Grimlock's field.   
  
Once upon a time, he could have stood against it without any difficulties. Now, there was something unpleasant about a field stronger than his. He didn't know if his own could stand up to it.   
  
“I look forward to working with you,” Optimus added.   
  
Grimlock 's field rippled, almost invasive, half-confidence and half-sly humor. “You might think differently after today.”   
  
Given that he was working hand in hand with Starscream, Grimlock probably had a point.  
  
“I don't know about everyone else, but I do have other things to do this cycle. If we could get this meeting started, maybe I could actually salvage something from this day,” Starscream said, loud enough to catch everyone's attention.   
  
Optimus resisted the urge to roll his optics.  
  
He joined Starscream and the others at the gathering of chairs. Soundwave must have just arrived as Optimus hadn't seen him come in. He took the chair on one side of Optimus, leaving Jazz on the other. It all felt informal, despite the fact they were here to sign a treaty effectively ending a war that had lasted for millennia and decimated the Cybertronian population.   
  
“I assume that you've completely delineated the command structure of the Decepticons?” Ultra Magnus asked with a pointed look at both Grimlock and Starscream.   
  
That was what had drawn their last meeting to an immediate close. There had been tentative agreement that Grimlock was the new leader of the Decepticons, but dissent in the ranks (re: Starscream) meant that nothing had been approved. For all the fuss Starscream had put up about the Autobots having a legitimate leader, he'd dropped the ball when it came to the Decepticons. Probably because he was miffed he couldn't score the position for himself.   
  
All those centuries of scheming and he still hadn't ended up with Megatron's throne.   
  
“Yes,” Starscream answered in a tight tone. “Our regulations are clear. Grimlock is now Lord of the Decepticons. I am his second and Air Commander. Cyclonus will be third in command. We're still working out the particulars of the other positions. Decepticon command structure is somewhat different from the Autobots.”   
  
Ultra Magnus inclined his helm. “That is acceptable. Thank you.” He produced a datapad from subspace and handed it to Starscream. “Here are the terms and conditions we've accepted, denied, or questioned.”   
  
Starscream accepted it and gestured toward Cyclonus, who rebooted his vocalizer and produced a datapad of his own.   
  
“Here's ours,” Starscream said, sounding distracted as he powered on the datapad and began to skim the contents.   
  
“I trust that there is little dissent,” Optimus said as the two more politically minded mechs began to skim the revised treaties. “I feel we've already debated the most important aspects.”   
  
“There is always room for improvement,” Cyclonus said.   
  
No one commented. Silence fell as the proposals were absorbed and considered. Ultra Magnus forwarded his copy to Optimus, allowing him to peruse the Decepticon demands. There was nothing he could see that would be an issue. Starscream had sought clarity on a few points, but made no outrageous requests.   
  
Optimus approved all of them and sent his comments to Ultra Magnus. Tucking away his datapad, Optimus glanced at Soundwave, but as always, there was little to read from the former Decepticon. His field was as enclosed as his expression.   
  
“You'd really rather live in Polyhex?” Starscream asked, his shock spilling into the peaceful quiet.   
  
“Are you so surprised?” Optimus asked, raising his orbital ridges. “We've already had one incident. I have no doubt there will be more if we try to force the Autobots into proximity with the Decepticons, whether or not they are guilty.”   
  
“In terms of supplies, its an illogical move to make,” Cyclonus said, his fingers tapping over his datapad. “But if we have any hope of maintaining this truce and the sanctity of the treaty, I don't see where there is a better solution.”   
  
“We'd prefer to stay here, but I suspect we'd have another war on our hands if we pushed it,” Jazz added with something of a sly grin. “So you just make sure your Cons don't come on our turf without a permit, and we'll extend the same courtesy.”  
  
“There is a danger of such factional division only perpetuating the divide that led to the war,” Ultra Magnus commented with a deepset frown. “But our only other option would be to leave Cybertron entirely and we are functionally incapable of doing so at the moment.”   
  
The Decepticons, after all, had slaughtered every last flight-capable mech among the Autobots. While they now had the _Xantium_ , it had already been cramped for space, which was what prompted Ultra Magnus' original return to Cybertron in the first place. Between the survivors and colonists he acquired, his mechs were stacked two and three high in habsuites meant to berth one.   
  
Which was even worse now because he was accommodating Optimus' Autobots. A few of Ultra Magnus' team had opted to camp outside the _Xantium_ , in the shadow of the spaceship. A few, Optimus had learned, had even stayed behind on Earth. It didn't erase the fact that the Xantium was overburdened.   
  
Not to mention the other issues of materials, medical supplies and energon.   
  
Staying on Cybertron was necessary for their survival. Sharing a city with the Decepticons was not.   
  
“Having a separate chain of command is expected then,” Starscream said, leaning back on his chair. He reclined as though he were comfortable. “Metalhawk will bitch if we don't give him legitimate faces to negotiate with.”   
  
“I am Lord of the Decepticons,” Grimlock said, his deep baritone leaving no room for argument. “All decisions for the Decepticons will go through me.”   
  
Optimus looked at Starscream. “And you are okay with us?”   
  
Starscream scowled, giving Grimlock a sideways look that he returned with a smirk. “It is the best option for us,” he said.   
  
Grimlock folded his arms over his chest, looking smug.   
  
“Optimus will lead us,” Ultra Magnus said, keeping his tone firm as though in a desperate attempt to get the conversation back on track. “He will hold the title of Prime despite the lack of Matrix. Our revised codex will reflect the change.”   
  
“There is some value to be found in tradition,” Cyclonus said, inclining his helm with approval. “Though progress is always acceptable. We do not want to make the same mistakes as our predecessors.”   
  
“We can all revisit the command structure once it is feasible to integrate the factions,” Optimus said. He still envisioned a united Cybertron; it simply wasn't possible in the immediate future.   
  
“Metalhawk insistent,” Soundwave said, fingers tapping on his datapad. “Demands immediate negotiation.”   
  
“Or what? They'll attack us?” Starscream scoffed. “He's lucky we haven't booted him and his useless mechs off the planet. All they did was run and hide during the war and they think they can come back here and take it back once the fighting's done? Frag that.”   
  
In this, at least, Starscream was not alone. There were few who disagreed with him. Optimus couldn't blame the Neutrals for preferring to stay out of the fighting. They had decimated the population after all. Megatron had made it so mechs were forced to make a choice.   
  
He understood Starscream's anger, however. Both Autobots and Decepticons had lost a lot in the course of the war. Their efforts felt cheapened by the Neutrals returning to lay claim to what they hadn't fought to keep.   
  
“Fortunately, they cannot match our combined strengths,” Ultra Magnus said. “We must be united against them.”   
  
“And we are. Thanks to this.” Starscream wiggled his datapad. “So long as we all agree.”   
  
Which was it boiled back down to, whether or not they could accept each other's compromises and demands.   
  
Optimus found a few other things that Starscream had delineated, most notably his suggestion that getting the space bridge back up and running took priority over anything else. Without energon, they were all fragged and Earth was still the best resource. Megatron had made it that way.   
  
Fortunately, repairing the space bridge would not be terribly difficult. The explosion had been meant to delay and disable, not destroy. Wheeljack was optimistic, especially if he could get Perceptor's help. Another mech, by the name of Bulkhead who was part of Ultra Magnus' crew, had been eager to lend a hand. Though Ultra Magnus had cautioned that he would need supervision.   
  
“He's brilliant,” Ultra Magnus had admitted with an expression on his face that indicated exasperation. “A little overeager, perhaps. Gets distracted easily.”   
  
Optimus despaired to hand him over to Wheeljack then. He hoped Perceptor would recover enough to rein in both enthusiastic engineers.   
  
“Right then,” Starscream said, abruptly sitting up straight. “I think we've all had enough time to read our terms and conditions. Is there anything we have to settle before we can get to signing this treaty?”   
  
No one offered an objection. They'd spent enough time in debates and rewrites that they should have argued all of the points by now.   
  
“We're in agreement then,” Optimus said. He tucked away his datapad and shifted his gaze to Ultra Magnus. “I trust you have the finalized versions for us to stamp.”   
  
“Yes, Prime.” Ultra Magnus handed over a datapad for Optimus' perusal. “Would it be better to sign in descending command order, Starscream?”   
  
“You can put as much ceremony as you like around it.” Starscream flicked a dismissing hand. “So long as we get this done. We have factional issues to take care of.”   
  
“Problems?” Optimus asked as he plugged into the pad and gave it his digital signature. He then passed it to Grimlock, who would return it to Ultra Magnus, then Starscream, then Jazz, then Cyclonus.   
  
Starscream's wing flicked. “Scrapper's petitioned for release again. As we are in need of both medics and construction mecha, I am having a difficult time denying his petition.”   
  
Nausea settled in Optimus' tanks. He understood Starscream's reasoning. But he also had a vivid memory of Ratchet's discomfort and pain.   
  
“What measures are you considering undertaking?” Ultra Magnus asked, his stiff tone ripe with disapproval.   
  
“We're still working on that.” Cylonus sighed. His field flicked through the room with an irritated edge. “They are useless if they can't transform. We'll remove their weapons as a matter of course. Tracking devices aren't entirely out of the question. And they'll board in the prison rather than house arrest. Anything more is still under discussion.”   
  
“Slag has volunteered to be a warden.” Grimlock grinned, looking far too smug for anyone's comfort. “A flamethrower up the aft should be incentive enough to behave.”   
  
“Besides. You worry about your prisoners, we'll worry about ours.” Starscream inclined his helm as his optics flashed. “And keep your Spec Ops pets to your territory, too. I don't want any of them snooping around.” He smiled at Jazz, but it was full of denta.   
  
Jazz chuckled. “You won't even know we're there,” he purred and second to last to sign, detached his cable from the datapad and handed it to Cyclonus, who was suddenly far less eager to take it.   
  
Starscream's engine growled. His optics narrowed.   
  
“There remains the matter of the Neutrals,” Optimus declared, hoping to forestall any potential arguments. Jazz and Starscream mixed together as well as oil and energon, which was to say, not at all. “We've already discussed handling them together, when do we intend to do so?”   
  
“Haste suggested,” Soundwave offered. “Metalhawk displeased. Also, loud and vocal. A threat to peace.”   
  
“You can say that again,” Starscream muttered. His gaze shifted to Grimlock. “Well, _Leader_?”   
  
Grimlock cycled a ventilation. “Two days,” he said. “Enough time to explain to our soldiers the particulars of the treaty.” The light behind his visor shifted to Optimus. “And to rest and recuperate for some of us.”   
  
So. He had noticed how badly Optimus had begun to tremble. That was unfortunate. The last thing Optimus needed was for the Decepticons to see how weak he was.   
  
“Agreed,” Ultra Magnus said before Optimus could argue otherwise. “I expect you will share your rations?”   
  
“So long as you share your scientists,” Starscream replied sweetly. “Because if we don't get that space bridge up and running, we'll all gray out. Blast Off can only fit so many and he's refusing to offer his services to just anyone.”   
  
With the Autobot airforce gone and both triple-changers dead, Blast Off was the only space-capable mech left on the planet. There was Ultra Magnus' ship and the Neutrals if they felt like cooperating, but Optimus wasn't going to put his faith in them. There were far too many engines to fuel right now.   
  
“Everything will be shared that is feasible,” Optimus said, careful to keep his tone firm but not challenging. “And Starscream, please remember that some of our scientists are in no condition to render assistance at the moment.”   
  
“I've not forgotten.” Starscream's wings twitched, a clear sign of his displeasure.   
  
Jazz clapped his hands together. “Well, mechs, I'd say we're done for today, yeah? All's well that end's well, how about we go our separate ways and feel good about the treaty?”  
  
Mercifully, everyone agreed, though the tension in the room remained thick and unappealing. Optimus shook hands, grabbed a copy of the datapad, and was the first out the door, which was probably unprofessional, but he wanted to return to the _Xantium_. He did not want to be in Decepticon-controlled Iacon, just around the corner from where Megatron had kept his berth.   
  
Escape was not to be his, however, because lurking outside the door was Onslaught yet again. Optimus had to give him credit; he was persistent.   
  
“There are procedures in place now,” Optimus said before Onslaught could even get a word or glyph out. He juggled the numerous datapads in his possession before producing one that could serve as explanation. “Submit a formal request and I'll set a time to meet with you.”   
  
“To whom?” Onslaught asked as he took the pad and flicked it on. He sounded irritated, but Optimus was in no mood to soothe wounded pride.   
  
To... whom? For a moment Optimus couldn't parse the question. Until he realized that for Onslaught to submit a formal request, he could need to address it to someone. It would be redundant to send such a thing to Optimus. What was the point of the process again?  
  
He rubbed at his forehelm, the ache behind his optics growing stronger. “Ultra Magnus,” Optimus said. “He'll review your request.”   
  
“Negative.”   
  
The denial had not come from Onslaught.   
  
Optimus blinked. Once again, Soundwave had emerged from the shadows, as silent as Prowl had been.   
  
“Beg pardon?” Optimus asked.   
  
“Does Soundwave hold rank?” Onslaught demanded.   
  
“Not officially,” Optimus replied and ow, yes, the ache was devolving toward pain now. Ratchet's warnings about needing rest sounded less like a cautionary tale now. “His position is yet to be decided.”   
  
“Ultra Magnus occupied with other duties,” Soundwave said. He came to a stop beside Optimus. “I am suited for this task.”   
  
Optimus frowned. “I don't know whether that's fair--”  
  
“Acceptable,” Onslaught interrupted with a sharp incline of his helm. “Your comm is the same?”   
  
“Affirmative.”   
  
“Then you'll have my petition by morning.” Onslaught tucked the datapad away and dipped his chassis in a shallow bow of respect. “I trust you'll find it favorable. Good evening.”   
  
Optimus watched him go, confusion battling against the ache. He felt he'd missed something but the sudden bout of dizziness made it difficult to parse exactly what.   
  
“Mutual respect,” Soundwave informed him as Optimus tossed him a look. “You indicated I need a task. One found.”   
  
“Yes, but... I didn't intend to recruit you as my assistant.” Optimus frowned. “That seems a little beneath your skillset.”   
  
Soundwave's visor dimmed. “Would rather I work for Jazz?” He touched his dock, perhaps indicating his cassettes beneath. “Special Operations?”   
  
“No. I'd prefer you be happy in whatever you choose. I simply want to make certain you're not limiting yourself because you think you need my approval.”   
  
Ah, what a mess.   
  
Optimus wanted his hab-suite. He wanted his berth. And he wanted to recharge without memory purges or unwelcome arousal.   
  
“We'll talk about this later,” Optimus added with an audible ex-vent that rattled far more than it ought.   
  
His knee wobbled as he turned. He couldn't explain why his ventilations were suddenly so shallow, or why his processor was spinning, or the contents of his tanks turning sour. He was only fifty percent energized, which was the most he'd been in quite some time, and a Ratchet accepted level. But suddenly, it felt like too much.   
  
Optimus swallowed down the impulse to purge.   
  
It was hot here. Too hot.   
  
“Tomorrow,” Optimus clarified with a suddenly dry mouth. “We'll figure out exactly what you can do tomorrow.”   
  
He took a step and swayed. The ground was at once far away, and too close.   
  
Soundwave shifted next to him, his field nudging against Optimus' in something that read as permission. And concern. He held out a hand as though he could read the wobble in Optimus' knee.   
  
“Assistance needed?”   
  
Optimus shook his helm, angling to avoid the hand Soundwave held out to him. Nothing personal. He simply didn't want any physical contact at the moment.   
  
“No, thank you,” Optimus said in as polite a tone as he could muster. “I will be fine on my own.”   
  
“Understood.”   
  
Mercifully, Soundwave backed off. He took with him the concern in his field, and it left Optimus feeling oddly disconnected.   
  
He offlined his optics, focused on ventilating for the span of a few seconds, and then gathered himself. He was stronger than this. He would not let Megatron's ghost defeat him.   
  
“Good night, Soundwave.” Optimus tipped his helm in gratitude and started down the hallway, focusing intently on appearing composed. It didn't matter that he wobbled.   
  
All he had to do was make it to his habsuite. Then he was free to collapse.   
  
So long as no one could see him.   
  


***


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus, First Aid, Metalhawk, Sky-Byte, Ultra Magnus, Springer, Jazz, Soundwave, Laserbeak, Starscream, Grimlock, Cyclonus, Onslaught  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings this chapter: None  
> Commission fic for NK  
> Mood Music: "Safe and Sound," Taylor Swift ft The Civil Wars

Optimus woke groggy with an intense feeling of weight to his frame. It was hard to leverage himself off the berth, and even harder to get his processor to focus. It felt as though he had to wade through a mire to find some semblance of coherency.  
  
His systems reported a persistent need for recharge, though he had gotten a full cycle's rest like Ratchet was constantly yelling at him to do. Perhaps it was the fault of the inhibitors, keeping him from cycling down properly. He would nix their use tonight, Optimus decided.  
  
A busy day awaited him, the first of which being his scheduled meeting with Onslaught. He would have lamented the earliness of it, but point of fact, it was nearly mid-afternoon. He had recharged far longer than he should have.  
  
Optimus forced himself off the berth. He stumbled around the tiny habsuite, fumbled a cube of energon from the dispensary, and chugged it down without regard to taste. There was opportunity to flavor it, but considering all of the supplements Ratchet prescribed, there was no concealing the taste. Better to choke it down as fast as possible.  
  
As the processor fog started to lift, he reviewed his plans for the day. Meeting with Onslaught, first and foremost. Then he needed to go over the plans for the move to Polyhex with Ultra Magnus along with the completion of integrating the two Autobot teams into one force. There would be a reshuffling of staff.  
  
Optimus anticipated a lot of whining.  
  
Beyond that, there was the matter of funeral arrangements. Optimus had received word that the offline Autobots had been tossed into a room and left to rust. It was unconscionable but unsurprising. Some had been stripped for parts, the dry datapad had read. Others were in appalling condition. Worse were the ones missing, ones Optimus knew the Decepticons had taken, but whose bodies were not present.  
  
It was something he intended to address with Starscream as soon as negotiations with the Neutrals were done. If Starscream did not know, Optimus suspected Shockwave would. And Optimus would have his answers. Bad enough that the Decepticons had abused his Autobots while they were alive. Optimus would see them find peace in the Allspark.  
  
The war had not granted much opportunity for caring for the dead. But they had the chance now and Optimus did not want to squander it. He also had plans to eventually build a massive memorial to commemorate those who had given their sparks, and to remind everyone of the heavy price paid.  
  
Hopefully, it would help inspire everyone to work together. That it would shame those trying to cause issues. Millions upon millions of Cybertronians had died. Optimus would not let it happen again.  
  
With a small sigh, Optimus finished off his energon. Clarity returned, leaving him with no more excuse to delay. He wouldn't be making a fool of himself at least.  
  
Optimus subbed his datapads and left his quarters, partially surprised that Soundwave wasn't immediately lying in wait for him. He'd gotten so used to the quiet mech's morning greetings. Though it certainly wasn't required of Soundwave, Optimus just found himself unexpectedly disappointed.  
  
Nevertheless, his chronometer reminded him that he was on the verge of being late. So Optimus picked up the pace and forced himself back into the world, dim as it was. They would need to find an anchor point for Cybertron soon, else they would be forever relying on Earth to sustain their planet.  
  
He managed to make it to his scheduled meeting with Onslaught. The Combaticon commander had gone through the appropriate methods, submitting a request through Soundwave, and so Optimus was obligated to oblige. He had an inkling of what Onslaught intended but best to acquire confirmation.  
  
Optimus departed the _Xantium_ and met Onslaught on neutral ground, so to speak. They were outside the Decepticon command center, but the open area was a relief to Optimus.  
  
More surprising was that Soundwave was there, waiting for them. So this was the reason Soundwave had not waited outside Optimus' door.  
  
“Soundwave to witness,” he informed them as both Optimus and Onslaught gave him a curious look. “Per protocol.”  
  
Ah. Optimus had nearly forgotten about that portion of the treaty.  
  
He dipped his helm. “Thank you, Soundwave,” he said and redirected his attention to Onslaught. “Commander,” he acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”  
  
“I do not wish to be a Decepticon,” Onslaught said, folding his hands behind his back. “Starscream has been made aware of this and ceded all rights to command over me. The loyalty coding has been stripped from myself and my team as a whole. We are free agents.”  
  
“Congratulations,” Optimus replied and he meant it. He also assumed that his Autobots had something to do with Onslaught's freedom. “Am I to assume that you wish to petition to join the Autobots?”  
  
Onslaught shook his helm. His visor flared before dimming. “No. I wish to be recognized as an established neutral and free agent. Not to join Metalhawk's ilk, but with the freedom to travel between the three factions and offer our services to whomever wishes it.”  
  
“Mercenaries?” Optimus frowned behind his mask. They didn't have much of an economy.  
  
“Of a sort. I am aware we have no monetary economy at the moment, but fuel and repairs and supplies are resources of worth,” Onslaught explained. “We are willing to trade our skills. Right now, we are also one of the few fighting units on this planet who are fully trained and fully repaired.”  
  
He had a point, Optimus had to admit. Most of the Decepticons were either in the Decepticon medical center or imprisoned. As were most of the Autobots, at least those that had been of Prime's forces. Ultra Magnus had brought with him a team of seven or so Autobots, but they were not all soldiers and they were occupied with filling in the slots left empty by Optimus' forces and providing defense for the Autobots as a large. He had also left half his soldiers on Earth.  
  
They were all overworked.  
  
“A neutral party with an assorted selection of talents and a communication system that is unhackable,” Optimus murmured. A thought percolated at the back of his processor. “I think I may have something that would suit your skillset. Though I do ask, are you opposed to working separately?”  
  
He was thinking, of course, of borrowing Swindle. Everyone was short on resources that couldn't be found on Cybertron, and it was no secret that Swindle had useful connections. Given the freedom to exploit them, Swindle would probably flourish and be less likely to cause trouble.  
  
He also made a mental note to have Jazz keep an optic on Vortex. Optimus had heard enough rumors to be concerned. Though given how well Bluestreak had been treated, these rumors might very well be false. Still. Trust but verify. It was a creed that Jazz bore as well.  
  
“No. You may approach them separately. So long as it doesn't conflict with any jobs we might have as a team, they are free agents,” Onslaught answered.  
  
Soundwave stirred beside Optimus. “Blast Off opposed to Earth?”  
  
Onslaught's visor gleamed with an undercurrent of humor. “You'll have to ask him that.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Optimus understood immediately what Soundwave meant by that. A team was needed to go back to Earth to repair the space bridge from the other side.  
  
Blast Off was the only living spaceworthy mech available. They could always take the _Xantium_ as Optimus had originally planned, but a fully-functional team would be more productive. Not to mention that Blast Off was something of an engineer and Vortex knew his way around mechanics. The entire Combaticon team would be a formidable asset.  
  
“Your terms are acceptable,” Optimus added. “Are you currently working for Starscream or are you seeking employment?”  
  
“We're open for business.” A small laugh escaped the Combaticon commander. “And as it stands, when it comes down to it, I would prefer to work with Autobots.”  
  
Optimus couldn't blame him for that one. “Understood. We actually have a few tasks that I think would suit your team. Contact Ultra Magnus. I'll have him prepare a few options for you.”  
  
“Much obliged. Thank you, Optimus Prime, for this opportunity.” Onslaught tipped his helm in a nod and offered his hand to Optimus.  
  
They shook.  
  
“You're welcome. As a down payment, I also suggest you report to the _Xantium_ 's medbay. I know your team is in good repair, but it never hurts to have a fully-fledged medic give you a once-over,” Optimus offered.  
  
Onslaught chuckled. “It can only help. I will inform my team. Thank you.” He tipped his helm toward Soundwave in acknowledgment. “Commander.”  
  
“Title unnecessary. No current rank,” Soundwave replied.  
  
Something in Onslaught's visor shifted. “My mistake,” he drawled. His field was perfectly neutral but Optimus suspected there was something deeper in the exchange.  
  
Decepticon politics had always been far more complicated than Autobot ones.  
  
Onslaught excused himself, leaving Optimus and Soundwave alone. “Should I ask what that parting comment was about?” Optimus asked as he turned toward Soundwave.  
  
“Politics complicated,” Soundwave said at length. “Respect exists, but wariness remains. Onslaught, also, perceptive.”  
  
Optimus cycled his optics. “Perceptive how?”  
  
Soundwave shifted his weight, though Optimus could not tell if it was from discomfort or embarrassment. Soundwave had taken to keeping his field tightly reined which Optimus appreciated, but it also made the notoriously unreadable mech even more difficult to fathom.  
  
“Similarities exist,” he said with an edge of someone who was admitting something. “Onslaught, quote, 'takes one to know one'.”  
  
Well, that was frustratingly vague. Optimus suspected Soundwave was being so on purpose because he knew Soundwave was capable of articulating himself more clearly. Perhaps this was a topic that caused him some discomfort.  
  
Best to let it drop for now. Optimus was well aware of topics that caused discomfort.  
  
“I see,” he said and cycled a ventilation. “I am due a meeting with Ultra Magnus next. I trust you are accompanying me?”  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
Well, Optimus supposed, they would have to get used to Soundwave's presence sooner or later. He could trust Ultra Magnus to hold his temper. It was Springer who was the wild card. Perhaps one of Ultra Magnus' other soldiers would be present instead.  
  
“Then let us go.” Optimus turned away from the Decepticon compound and headed back to the _Xantium_. He'd spend the majority of the past few days traveling all around Iacon. “Magnus has never tolerated tardiness.”  
  
Soundwave's chassis echoed a noise that might have been a chuckle. Or maybe Optimus imagined it.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
Later that evening, Optimus dragged himself back to the _Xantium_ , thinking only of energon and recharge and solutide, perhaps not even in that order. After all, tomorrow was set to be equally exhausting as he had the meeting with Metalhawk.  
  
First Aid commed him the moment he set a pede on the entrance ramp, however. There was a long, shameful moment where Optimus actually considered ignoring him. However, he couldn't shake the possibility that it might be an emergency. He answered, and then sighed when First Aid asked him to come in for a check up.  
  
“I was about to enter recharge, First Aid,” Optimus said as he continued into the ship, each pede dragging as though he didn't have the energy to spare to lift it.  
  
“It will only take a second,” First Aid replied. His tone was both concerned and earnest. “Ratchet made me promise I'd get you in here.”  
  
That sneaky... Optimus cycled a ventilation. “Very well. I'll be there in a moment.” Optimus closed off the comm and rubbed at his forehelm again. At least it would spare him the trouble of getting up early tomorrow to visit the medbay and its inhabitants.  
  
He altered his course, aiming instead for the medbay. So much for collapsing onto his berth. At least First Aid's comm indicated that perhaps Ratchet was allowing himself some much-needed rest. Optimus could only hope. He didn't want to have to intervene.  
  
The medbay was near the ramp at least so Optimus didn't have to detour very far. He did brace himself, however, for the inevitable assault to his field. Some of the recovering Autobots were incapable of restraining their fields, he'd come to learn, and it was none of it pleasant. So Optimus drew his own field tightly and cycled a ventilation before he entered the medbay.  
  
The odor, at least, had improved. Less the pervasive stench of decay and rust and broken things, it was now crisp and medicinal and much, much quieter. No more emergency surgeries. No more frantic dashes to restrain patients who did not understand that they were safe now.  
  
Every time Optimus walked through these doors, he experienced a fresh surge of loathing for Megatron. Sometimes, it carried over to the troops who'd willingly gone along with Megatron's misconduct as well.  
  
Thank Primus they were Starscream's problem now and Optimus didn't have to struggle with what was legal, moral, or ethical. Because he didn't know if he could be an impartial judge right now. He honestly didn't know. He no longer had the Matrixs wisdom to draw upon either.  
  
First Aid came into view, stepping out of one of the private rooms. What little Optimus sensed of his field was fatigue and grief, but his visor still lit upon sight of Optimus.  
  
“Thank you for coming,” he said as the tickle of a scan was immediately tangible.  
  
Optimus almost chuckled. First Aid had learned from his mentor very well. Ratchet tended to accompany all greetings with a reflexive scan.  
  
“Ratchet didn't leave me much choice,” Optimus said, inclining his helm. “How are your patients?”  
  
First Aid tensed, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. “I'm going to discharge Hound tomorrow. Jazz is taking custody of him. I have already released Mirage. And Grimlock has custody of Swoop. As for everyone else...” His visor turned bleak. “We need a processor specialist for Red Alert, and as much as I want nothing more to do with my former master, I need to talk to him to figure out how we can help Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. I was there for half of it and I still don't know what he did.”  
  
First Aid's tension grew, his plating clamped so tightly to his understructure that he had to be in pain.  
  
“Are they stable?”  
  
“For now.” First Aid ex-vented slowly and lifted his helm. “Ratchet and I agreed to put them in stasis. It's better for their systems and their sparks. They could stay like that indefinitely...” He rolled his shoulders, causing his arm tires to set off into a creaking spin. “It's not ideal, but it's better than endless suffering. I don't even know how much they understand of what's going on.”  
  
Optimus worked his intake. “It may be for the best,” he said. “Those three are the only patients who remain?”  
  
“Yes. Ratchet released Perceptor this morning. He and Wheeljack are looking after him, but Ratchet doesn't see any reason to be concerned.” First Aid tilted his helm. “So if you let me get those scans, sir, you can be on your way, too.”  
  
“Of course. Lead the way.” Optimus did not usually have a problem with medbays but for some reason today, it made him feel twitchy. Perhaps it was the fatigue.  
  
He followed First Aid to a diagnostic room and sat in the only chair available for his frame size.  
  
“It's only a few scans,” First Aid said as he tapped Optimus' wrist port in request for him to cycle it open. “I promise to be quick.”  
  
Optimus sighed and allowed the panel to slide aside, First Aid opting to connect to the distal medical port with a datapad instead of his own cable. Optimus was relieved. While it was one violation Megatron had never forced on him while he was conscious, he still had an aversion to others being in his system.  
  
Optimus tried to get comfortable and not twitch as he felt the internal tickle of First Aid's scans. He had a feeling neither he nor First Aid were going to like whatever First Aid uncovered.  
  
“You are not recharging well, I see,” First Aid observed aloud. There was a hint of censure in his vocals. “You are using the inhibitors but not often enough.”  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. “I do not like how foggy they leave my processor when I online.”  
  
“So the lack of recharge is preferable?”  
  
“Both are unacceptable. I have not found a workable solution.”  
  
First Aid made a noncommittal noise and lapsed back into silence, going over the data the scanners were giving him. Optimus tried not to fidget like a youngling.  
  
“You need more rest,” First Aid said after another moment.  
  
Optimus almost laughed. “Tell Ratchet I will do so as soon as all of the political landmines have been uncovered. I need one more day.”  
  
“I will let him know.” Humor touched First Aid's vocals for the first time.  
  
The scan completed and Optimus braced himself for the disconnect. First Aid's touch was quick and professional, though there was little he could do to mitigate the after-effect of the scan. Optimus would feel as though his lines were crawling for a little while longer.  
  
“You're healing at least,” First Add said as he scribbled something on the datapad. “Not as fast as we'd like, but I suspect the lack of rest and recharge is to blame. You're drinking the medical grade energon with the supplements Ratchet suggested?”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“It's a start,” First Aid observed and he made a few more notes before clicking off the datapad and subspacing it. “Thanks for coming in, sir. Hopefully this will help Ratchet rest easy, too. He worries. Even though he says he doesn't.”  
  
Optimus smiled behind his mask. “I know, First Aid. I have known Ratchet for many, many centuries. Thank you for your support. And might I suggest that you get some rest of your own. No one is critical, yes?”  
  
“Yes,” First Aid admitted, somewhat grudgingly. He clutched his datapad as though it were a physical support. “Though I really should--”  
  
“You can set their berths to alert you if anything changes, yes?” Optimus continued. He would not see any of his medics fall apart for lack of rest and recharge. He would not.  
  
First Aid's shoulders dipped a bit further as he cycled a ventilation. “Ratchet told me not to let you rationalize me into resting.”  
  
Optimus managed a chuckle. “I suspect he told you that because he knew I would anyway. Set the monitors to alert you and rest, First Aid. You don't have to fall into a deep defrag, but you do have to remember you are no more healthier than the rest of us, even if you aren't as visibly scarred.”  
  
First Aid's intake worked. His visor gleamed. His field wavered. He clutched his datapad tight enough that the metal creaked as he bowed his helm.  
  
“Work is... easier,” he said, after a long moment, static lacing his glyphs. “It is a distraction I need right now, sir. But I will try to remember to take care of myself, too. After all, I am _needed_.”  
  
“Yes,” Optimus said with a dip of his helm. “You most certainly are.”  
  
There was a time Optimus Prime would have comforted one of his soldiers with a casual hand on the shoulder or upper back, those that invited such comfort at any rate. There was a time he would extend his field, allow all the wisdom and peace the Matrix offered to provide such to them as well. There was a time Optimus Prime could comfort just by being himself.  
  
He hated, right now, that he could offer none of these things. And that he had no alternative solutions, or words to offer.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” First Aid finally said and he hugged his datapad to his chestplate. “I, um, I need to get this data uploaded for Ratchet. And I did interrupt you on your way to recharge.”  
  
It was a dismissal, as politely as First Aid could word one. Optimus understood. Sometimes, privacy was needed to pull oneself together.  
  
He rose to his pedes slowly, well aware that his size often caused him to loom and as of late, tended to make his smaller Autobots flinch. Even Ratchet, one of his oldest and dearest friends, cringed if Optimus moved too quickly.  
  
“Thank you for your care,” Optimus said with a dip of his helm.  
  
First Aid could not smile, but there was a hint of appreciation in the short burst of his field. He turned and headed for the tiny medical officer's office, previously unoccupied, and Optimus excused himself from the medbay. He set an immediate course for his habsuite, feeling the weight of the fatigue on his shoulders.  
  
Along with the guilt. Seeing First Aid in so much pain and being unable to help made him wonder just how much he deserved the loyalty of his troops.  
  
Soon, Optimus had to remind himself. Soon the treaty discussions with the Neutrals would be complete, everyone would begin to rebuild in their selected locations, and they could all concentrate on healing.  
  
He only had to get through the politics first.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
A new day dawned and with it, their official meeting with the Neutrals. Optimus wouldn't claim that he was dreading it, but there was absolutely no excitement involved. There were far too many strong personalities getting together for his comfort. But the faster they got this done, the faster everyone could focus on the more important task of recovering and rebuilding.  
  
Soundwave once again met him outside his habsuite with a cube of energon. It had become a routine and no matter how much Optimus told him it wasn't necessary, Soundwave persisted. Optimus stopped trying to convince him otherwise.  
  
The cassette of choice today was Ravage, perched at Soundwave's pedes and regarding Optimus with an incisive look that felt assessing.  
  
Optimus greeted them both, accepted the cube, and together, they headed toward the neutral location that had been selected for the meeting. It was in Iacon's central courtyard, firmly in Decepticon territory, but the location was both secure and open. None of the factions would feel trapped, there was plenty of room for escape, and there was plenty of room for all of the factions to bring as many members as they felt would be comfortable.  
  
There were eleven mechs crowded around the meeting area with no furniture present. No one, apparently, was supposed to be comfortable.  
  
On the Decepticon side was Grimlock, Starscream, Cyclonus and their new CMO, a flashy grounder by the name of Knock Out. Optimus had only seen him in passing, but something about the way the mech smirked made him think he and Ratchet would either become the best of snarky friends or worst enemies.  
  
Metalhawk's second in command was a former Decepticon by the name of Sky-Byte (who had not in fact died as Ricochet aka Jazz had claimed) and his third was Skids, a mech who had been only vaguely familiar to Optimus until Jazz had pulled him aside and explained that Skids used to be an Autobot. Was in fact a former member of Jazz's Spec Ops division until he went missing. They thought him dead. Metalhawk's CMO was Ambulon, a mech with a shoddy paintjob and a perpetual frown.  
  
Optimus brought with him Ultra Magnus, Jazz, and Ratchet. Soundwave tagged along as well, but he still bore no badge. He did not identify himself as a neutral. Ratchet, however, took one look at Knock Out and spun on a heelstrut, claiming he had better work to do than argue politics. Optimus didn't even try to convince him to stay. He would only be a comm call away if necessary.  
  
“Well,” Starscream said as he planted his hands on his hips and looked down his olfactory sensor at a frowning Metalhawk, “since everyone is finally here, can we get this started and over with? I am busy.”  
  
Optimus sighed. He had the feeling he was going to be spending most of his time as a peacemaker. “Starscream, a certain degree of politeness would be appreciated.”  
  
“If you could remind Metalhawk of that, maybe we'd all get along.” Starscream sneered.  
  
Optimus pinched his forehelm ridge. His helm was starting to ache and he suspected recharge shortage was not to blame. He felt Soundwave shift beside him.  
  
Grimlock growled. Starscream cut him a look, but he folded his arms and said nothing further. Perhaps Grimlock had tamed him after all.  
  
“I have been nothing but cordial,” Metalhawk said frostily. “But I also will not tolerate you casting aspersions on me or my people.”  
  
Optimus held up both hands. “Gentlemechs, please. We're all exhausted. The faster we complete negotiations, the faster we can all move on to what is important.”  
  
Silence descended but no one argued. Thank Primus.  
  
“Very well,” Metalhawk said as he inclined his helm. “Now I take it that you two have a peaceful accord?”  
  
“We won't negotiate unless we are certain that there is no risk of the Autobots and Decepticons returning to their war,” Sky-Byte added, his resonant vocals pleasing to the audials.  
  
“I understand.” Optimus fought the urge to grit his denta. There was something rather snide in the Neutrals' tones. He understood Starscream's irritation all the sudden. “Yes, we have signed a treaty.”  
  
Grimlock folded his arms over his chest, mimicking his second, though it had the effect of making him look larger. “Me Grimlock sign agreement. Autobots and Decepticons allies now.”  
  
Optimus swung his gaze toward Grimlock. There must be a reason the mech had reverted to that speech pattern. He would ask later.  
  
“Allies,” Metalhawk repeated as though the term were distasteful to him.  
  
“It means that we outnumber you,” Starscream said, raising his vocals a touch so that they echoed in the courtyard. “That we are working hand in hand and you can't bully us into anything. We will not be forced off the planet we fought to protect.”  
  
“You destroyed this planet!” Sky-Byte said, taking a harsh step forward. His plating flared and fluttered.  
  
“I seem to remember you fighting alongside us,” Cyclonus said in a mild tone. His frown was the deepest of those present. “You may have discarded your badge, Sky-Byte, but that does not make you any less culpable.”  
  
“We are all to blame,” Ultra Magnus said, his even tone matching Cyclonus' and easing the tension by a few degrees. “Those of us who stayed, those of us who left, we are all to blame. But we are here now to repair the damage we have done. Let us not worsen matters by fighting about the past.”  
  
Sky-Byte fell back. Cyclonus' gaze dropped away. They were not mollified, but the issue was at least dropped. Optimus was immediately grateful for Ultra Magnus' ability to remain calm no matter what storm was passing over him.  
  
“Grimlock is correct,” Optimus said after a cycled ventilation. “The Autobots and Decepticons will govern each other separately, but we are united when it comes to the care of Cybertron. With that in mind, Metalhawk, we do caution you to remember that you will be incapable of trying to force us away from our home.”  
  
Sky-Byte growled warningly in his chassis but Metalhawk raised a hand, silencing him with a single look.  
  
“Understood, Prime,” Metalhawk said with a minute dip of his helm. There was respect in it, but little concession. “As we are most interested in returning to our homeworld, it is in all of our best interests that we work together and come to an accord.”  
  
“Then we agree.” Optimus looked toward Grimlock.  
  
The Dinobot snuffled loudly but jerked his helm up. “Me Grimlock cooperate,” he said.  
  
Some of the tension eased from the gathering. Grimlock kept his arms folded, but Starscream and Cyclonus relaxed by degrees. Knock Out, who had never tensed in the first place, smirked.  
  
Of the Neutrals, Sky-Byte still looked on edge. Skids had effected a lazy disinterest that nearly matched Knock Out's own. Ambulon hadn't looked up from his datapad.  
  
“Let's get down to business,” Starscream said, easily capturing everyone's attention. He waved one clawed hand in a circular gesture. “Iacon is ours. It belongs to the Decepticons. The Autobots have agreed to occupy Polyhex. Which means, Metalhawk, that you and yours can set up camp wherever you want, so long as it's not in one of those places.”  
  
Metalhawk twitched, his frown deepening. There was little love lost between he and Starscream apparently. “How gracious of you. What of the space bridge?”  
  
“It is in the process of being rebuilt,” Jazz said with a lazy drawl. He smiled, but no one returned it. “We've got our top mechs working on it. But rumor has it you might have a resource we can tap into.”  
  
“Brainstorm,” Skids offered as he stretched his arms over his head, cables flexing and popping, almost as though he were showing off.  
  
“Yeah,” Jazz said, visor shifting toward Skids as though he were measuring the former Autobot's worth. “Him. Word is he's good with a little direction. Well, we got plenty of direction.”  
  
“The sharing of resources is the first important step in building bridges of good faith,” Metalhawk said with an agreeing hum. His winglets quivered as he cast Starscream an askance look. “I shall ask Brainstorm, but we are not a military unit, I can't command it of him.”  
  
Skids grinned. “You have Perceptor, right? Then it's easy, boss. Just tell Stormy that the greatest analytic mind ever is working for the Autobots and he'll jet on over.” He chuckled and winked at Jazz.  
  
“I will be sure to mention it,” Metalhawk said dryly. He tapped his fingers against his thigh armor. “Now what of energon?”  
  
“We'll have more as soon as the space bridge is up and running. Right now, we have sufficient reserves to fuel every member of all three factions for the next month,” Starscream answered.  
  
Sky-Byte tilted his helm. “Month?”  
  
“Cybertron without solar cycles,” Soundwave said, speaking up for the first time. “Month, human definition.”  
  
“We run on human time. We set our cycles to Earth, where all of our fuel production is,” Starscream clarified. “Tethering Cybertron to a sun is a future project, but we must consider immediate need first.”  
  
“Interesting.” Sky-Byte made a thoughtful hum. “That is quite the difficult task but of great importance. We have many brethren who seek to return but without a stable orbit, Cybertron will not be able to support a growing population.”  
  
Optimus nodded. “Yes. But let us focus on the present population first. Otherwise we might return to the same conditions that let to war in the first place.” He would not see a rush of Cybertronians return to the planet only to have them squabble over resources.  
  
Optimus would leave before he returned to war. Barring that, he would rather offline.  
  
“Of course,” Metalhawk said and he lifted his hands, pressing his palms together as he addressed Optimus directly. “Now I am given to understand you are in need of a processor specialist?”  
  
Optimus' optics narrowed. “State the source of your information.”  
  
“We have been sharing medics, Prime. Also, your security director's condition is no secret.” Metalhawk inclined his helm. “I have learned of Trepan's fate. As it just so happens, I have an associate of his amongst my crew. One of his former students.”  
  
Starscream snorted. “And what concession will he cost us?”  
  
“None.” Metalhawk smiled as he gestured with one hand. “I'll consider it a gesture of good will. Say the word and I'll have Chromedome examine Red Alert. I cannot guarantee a cure, but he may be able to help.”  
  
Optimus glanced at Ultra Magnus who inclined his helm in a barely registered motion. Optimus did not want to appear overeager. He wanted to help Red Alert, but he couldn't afford to do so at all costs.  
  
“Very well,” Optimus said. “We accept your assistance in this matter as well.” Building bridges, after all. Wasn't that what Cyclonus had said?  
  
“Are there any other matters that need to be addressed?” Ultra Magnus asked as he looked up from his datapad.  
  
Optimus wasn't sure which of the two was taking more extensive notes: Ultra Magnus or Soundwave. And Ravage, Optimus was certain, was recording the whole thing. Which might prove beneficial in the future if anyone tried to make a false claim.  
  
Optimus glanced at Metalhawk and Grimlock, but neither leader offered a topic for consideration. It seemed they had exhausted all of the important details. Smaller matters could be discussed at a later time. Or perhaps they could arrange some sort of weekly court for the three factions to address concerns with each other?  
  
Yes, Optimus would propose that to both Metalhawk and Grimlock. But later, when he could do so separately. Fatigue was rearing its ugly helm and he was quite done with negotiations. He felt he hadn't been able to think clearly for the past week and all he wanted to do was not navigate a political minefield for a day.  
  
Perhaps he might even indulge in that rest Ratchet kept trying to inflict upon him.  
  
“It seems there are not,” Optimus said at length. “Then we are at an accord? We will all agree to sign a treaty?”  
  
No one argued. Optimus dared cycle a ventilation of relief.  
  
He stepped back and watched Ultra Magnus distribute copies of the three-faction treaty to Grimlock and Metalhawk. The Neutrals were the only ones to look it over as the Autobots and Decepticons had already discussed it at length. Unless Metalhawk chose to contest a stipulation, there was nothing they felt needed changing.  
  
Optimus rubbed at his forehelm. His entire frame ached. He wanted to rub at his lower backstrut as well, but feared it would be seen as a weakness. His field was prickly from the effort of holding it in, but even Optimus knew better than to let anyone get a taste of his subconscious. It was not a pleasant sensation.  
  
He felt a presence nearby and glanced to the side, noticing that Soundwave had inched closer to him, well within field-contact distance, but not touching him. Nor had he reached out with the intention to read Optimus' field. He felt both silent guardian and silent support, not unlike Jazz on Optimus' other side.  
  
It was almost odd how out of everyone, Soundwave had been the most persistent presence in Optimus' life since Megatron's death and the abrupt end to Autobot captivity.  
  
“This will do,” Metalhawk said finally, though there was a reluctance in his tone. Optimus doubted it had anything to do with the treaty and more to do with the fact he was agreeing to work with Autobots and Decepticons.  
  
All three faction leaders signed the treaty and with that, legally, they were allies. They were legally sharing Cybertron. They were legally obligated to help each other.  
  
Primus help them all.  
  
The meeting broke apart soon after.  
  
Metalhawk departed, promising to contact Ratchet later in order to help Red Alert. Grimlock, too, stomped off claiming that he had to check on Swoop. Starscream was the one who approached the Autobots afterward, though he waited until Ultra Magnus excused himself to properly file the legal documents. Cyclonus and Knock Out were also dismissed.  
  
“What ya want, Screamer?” Jazz asked, tone casual but the gleam to his visor proving that he was watching the Seeker like a turbohawk.  
  
Starscream gave him a scathing look. “I have requested repeatedly that you not call me that.”  
  
“Where's the fun in that?”  
  
“Jazz,” Optimus warned.  
  
His Special Ops commander grinned and tipped his helm in a shallow bow. “My mistake, Air Commander Starscream. What brought ya slithering over?”  
  
Starscream twitched, but mercifully, he didn't engage. He focused on Optimus instead. “Since I have no little spies at the moment, Prime, I'm coming to you. I can't be the only one who doesn't trust Metalhawk any further than I can throw him. We need to be careful.”  
  
Optimus folded his arms over his chest. “I am aware of that. But we have the upperhand right now. What makes you think Metalhawk will risk that?”  
  
“Key phrase: right now,” Soundwave said and he tilted his helm, visor regarding Starscream with interest. “Overall, Neutrals outnumber Autobots and Decepticons. Two to one.”  
  
Starscream nodded and jabbed a thumb toward Soundwave. “The walking boombox is right. If we don't have a handle by the time all those cowards come crawling back to Cybertron, they'll overrun us. And then see if they don't try to lock us all up, Bot and Con.”  
  
He had a point, as much as it pained Optimus to admit. It was also a fair theory. The Neutrals unequivocally blamed Autobot and Decepticon alike. There had been a sharp sense of anger in Metalhawk's words and concessions, as though he were barely keeping himself from doing damage. He had no love for any mech not Neutral.  
  
Optimus suspected the entire negotiation would have gone a lot differently if Metalhawk had had better support. He would have been less likely to concede.  
  
“We'll keep an optic on him,” Jazz said, all trace of teasing gone from his vocals. The hard edge to his visor hearkened back to the war room and plots of infiltrating the Nemesis.  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation. “Nothing that would violate the terms of the treaty, Jazz.”  
  
“Of course not, boss bot. What kinda amateur do ya think I am?” Jazz beamed and strutted right up to Soundwave, knocking his knuckles against his dock. “Whaddya say, Sounders? Wanna loan me a tiny bot or two?”  
  
Ravage rustled her armor plates. The color in Soundwave's visor flattened.  
  
“Discussion later,” he said in a dark tone. “Soundwave will consider.”  
  
Jazz barked a laugh. “That's what I love about ya, Soundwave. Such a sense of humor.” He half-turned toward Optimus and half-lit his visor, Jazz's version of a wink. “Don't worry. We'll make sure to catch any trouble Metalhawk might try to cause.”  
  
“Be sure that you do,” Starscream said. He tossed Optimus a look and then kicked on his thrusters, rising into the air. “I'm not losing this chance, Prime,” he said, and then he was gone, shooting up into the sky with a distant gleam of metal.  
  
“Always has to put on a show,” Jazz muttered as he crossed his arms over his bumper. He shook his helm. “Well, guess that means I better get going, too. Things to do. Ops to arrange. You know how it is.” He lifted a shoulder toward Soundwave. “Call me later, yeah?”  
  
“Possibility exists.”  
  
Jazz barked a laugh, tossed Optimus a salute, and scampered off toward the _Xantium_ , and the makeshift tents surrounding it. The next couple of days would be filled with packing up and shipping out as the Autobots prepared to move to Polyhex.  
  
Optimus turned toward Soundwave who seemed to be waiting for him. “Well, I do not know about you, but I am beyond exhausted. I believe I'll retire for the rest of the day. You are more than welcome to do so yourself.” Point of fact, Optimus didn't even know where Soundwave was recharging. Perhaps still in his quarters in the Decepticon stronghold?  
  
“Understood,” Soundwave said. He fell into step beside Optimus as Optimus turned toward the _Xantium_ as well.  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation, feeling some of the tension ease out of him. The political work was partially done. Now would come the easier part of rebuilding. He dared believe that meant peace was at hand.  
  
He never thought he'd lived to see it. He'd hoped. He'd prayed. But a part of him had always feared he wouldn't survive the war.  
  
“Future bright,” Soundwave intoned as he matched Optimus step for step.  
  
Optimus glanced over at him, finding that Soundwave was looking down at Ravage, something in the look hinting of fondness.  
  
“Yes,” Optimus agreed with a small smile behind his mask. “The future is looking very bright indeed.”  
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: And that's the end of Oubliette, but not the end of the story, nor the end of Crown the Empire.
> 
> We have two sequels coming up next, Reign and Salvage, which will run concurrently. I will either start posting in July or August, depending on if I can get them finished in time.
> 
> As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated. Thank you for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Surviving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766214) by [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin)




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